


No blood, no alibi

by forestgreen



Series: No blood, no alibi [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Lyanna Centric, Lyanna Lives, Period-Typical Sexism, Period-Typical Underage, R plus L equals J, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-29 22:58:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8508808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestgreen/pseuds/forestgreen
Summary: They call her She-Wolf to her face, and Mad-Bitch behind her back. Lyanna likes both names, is proud of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been long in the making. When I first read "A Song of Ice and Fire" a couple of years ago, a line in the books stayed with me. Early on Ned Stark tells Arya: "You have a wildness in you, child. 'The wolf blood,' my father used to call it. Lyanna had a touch of it, and my brother Brandon more than a touch." And I remember thinking: What would have happened if it had been the other way around? The question never quite left me. And here, more than four years later, is the result.
> 
> As usual, my thanks go to the magnificent enabler, supporter, and beta-reader extraordinaire **akelios**. This story wouldn't exist without her encouragement and patience. All remaining mistakes are mine.

_"You have a wildness in you, child._  
_'The wolf blood,' my father used to call it._  
_Brandon had a touch of it,_  
_and my sister Lyanna more than a touch."_  
  
Eddard Stark to Arya Stark

  


˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

A lady should not grow up without a mother.

"Lord Stark should remarry," her father's servants and bannermen whisper where they think they can't be overheard. "Lady Lyanna needs a woman's hand to guide her. She'd be different with a woman in the house. Tamer."

Lyanna does not care for tame. She is the North's winter rose, wild and beautiful and _thorny_. There's magic in winter roses, Old Nan tells her, and strength. No other flower can survive the harshness of winter, and yet the colder and longer the winter, the more beautiful its roses.

Lyanna might have no mother, but she has three brothers and a father who dote on her. She finds that more than enough. She doesn't remember her mother and doesn't really miss her, even though everyone seems to think she ought to, but Lyanna has never been one for doing what others expect. She's contrary like that.

Wild, the men call her, and Lyanna smiles with pride when she hears it. She likes being wild, like a winter storm, like a direwolf. Like the North.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

On her fifth name day all kinds of presents wait for Lyanna: a new gray and white coat; fine dresses; a doll like the little ladies in the South like to play with, clad in delicate embroidery, with real hair as fine as gold and just as pretty.

Lyanna looks at her father with the betrayed look of a child who has always gotten her will and doesn't know why today of all days should be different. "Where is my sword?" she asks. Maybe they just hid it some other place. "I said I wanted a sword, just like Ned's. He got a sword for his fifth name day."

Her father laughs, that deep laugh he has whenever one of his children does or says something that takes him by surprise and yet pleases him. "Darling, Ned is a boy. Swords are for boys, not for little ladies. Don't you like your doll? I had it made for you in King's Landing, just for my little princess."

"I want a sword, not some stupid doll." Lyanna glares at her father and stomps her foot so hard that she feels it in her knee.

"Darling, that's not possible," Lord Stark cajoles.  

It's the first time as far as she can remember that her father has denied her anything. She doesn't like it. "I want a sword!" she shouts in a high-pitched voice that precedes a temper tantrum. Her lips tremble and tears well up in her eyes.

"She can have my wooden sword," Brandon hurries to offer, always the first to cave to Lyanna's whims. "Ser Willam says I'm ready for a real sword anyway."  

"Nonsense," her father snaps, his tone harsher than Lyanna has ever heard. "I won't have my daughter running around with swords."

"I hate you!" she screams at him. "If mom was alive, she'd let me have a sword!" she says, crying, and runs to her room, slamming the door shut with all her strength. Deep down, there's a part of her that regrets the words, but right then that part doesn't matter. Only the tides of anger crashing against her chest with no other outlet than useless tears.

Lyanna refuses to leave her room, even after Brandon and Ned and Old Nan come to cajole her. Brandon even offers to get her a sword behind their father's back and teach her how to use it, but Lyanna doesn't want to hide. She wants to learn to fight like her brothers, like the warrior princesses of Old Nan's stories. Her anger feels almost alive, like a caged animal that wants to escape and lash out.

She catches sight of her new doll, blonde and pretty and so very frail—a silly doll for a silly girl—and her anger grows. Nobody thought to give Ned a doll. Or Brandon. What does she get a stupid doll? She hurls it against the wall and its porcelain face shatters into hundreds of pieces. It feels _good_. Liberating. 

She comes back to herself within the embrace of her father's arms. Only then does she realize that she's been fighting against him, biting and kicking and screaming. Her room is in shambles, with most of her things lying broken on the floor. Dimly, she remembers being the one responsible.

"I'm sorry," she says, sniffing. "I didn't mean to. I'm sorry." And she _is_ sorry. She doesn't know what got into her, only that she needed to let her rage out or else it would have consumed her.

Her father strokes her hair and hugs her closer. "Hush, I know. I know. It's the wolf blood in you, darling," he says. "All Starks have some, and you have more than others."

"I'm sorry," she says again, because it seems as though it's something she ought to apologize for.

Her father chuckles. "It's not your fault. There's too much Stark blood in you, that's all." He kisses her forehead and holds her and she falls asleep within the comfort of his arms, exhausted.

The next day, she gets her wooden sword.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

After Old Nan finally considers her clean enough, Lyanna runs to her father's solar to tell him all about her first day of sword practice. Ser Willam is speaking to her father, and Lyanna slows down, coming to a stop on other side of the door. She knows better than to interrupt her father when he's fulfilling his duties as Lord.

"Are you sure that's wise, my Lord?" Ser Willam is asking her father.

"Ser Willam, if you go easy on that girl, she'll never stop wanting to play with swords," her father says. Lyanna holds her breath, aware that they are talking about her. "A few bruises won't kill her. Be hard on her; harder than you'd be on the boys. When it gets to be too much, she'll realize that swords and horses aren't for women. The sooner that happens, the better."

"Let's hope you're right, my Lord," Ser Willam says. "That girl could out-stubborn a mule."

Lyanna balls her hands into fists, turns around on silent feet and goes back to her room. She'll show them.

There's wolf blood in her, and it was her father who told her that true wolves know no fear. She'll prove to him that she is as much a wolf as her brothers.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

By the time she's two and ten everyone has forgotten that she shouldn't fight with swords.

On the training field she has no rival. Not even Brandon can best her, despite being five years her senior. She's fast, faster than any of her father's men, and utterly ruthless. She fights to win and doesn't stop until she has, no matter the cost. The other children learn to fear her. Strength and size don't matter much against someone willing to do _absolutely anything_ to win a fight.

They call her She-Wolf to her face, and Mad-Bitch behind her back. Lyanna likes both names, is proud of them.

Then Ned comes home after years in the South and brings his friend Robert Baratheon with him. It's the beginning of the end, but Lyanna doesn't know it, nor would she believe it if someone were to tell her. She's just turned two and ten, and life seems as eternal as the snow in the North.  

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

She, Brandon and Benjen whisper about Ned behind his back.

"He's not our real brother," Brandon tells Benjen with a serious face, and Lyanna has to bite her lips not to laugh out loud at the worry in Benjen's face.

"But father says he is," Benjen points out, looking around to check if there are grown-ups close by. Benjen had been four when Ned left to be fostered at the Eyrie and doesn't remember their brother well.

"He looks like our brother," Lyanna confides, playing along, "but in truth he's an Other."

"An Other?" Benjen gasps, glancing at Brandon for confirmation.

"Yes." Brandon nods. "The Others probably took the real Ned when he was traveling South and put an impostor in his place. The Southerns didn't notice, of course. Everyone knows they're too stupid to recognize an Other when they see one," he says dismissively.

"But father would surely notice, wouldn't he?" Benjen frowns.

"Well, he's getting on his years. His eyesight isn't what it used to be," Lyanna whispers.

Benjen breaks into tears during dinner when father makes him sit next to Ned, and Lyanna and Brandon laugh so hard that their bellies ache. Father finally manages to get the story out of a terrified Benjen, and she and Brandon get the scolding of their lives — although not as bad as the one they'd gotten when they were caught trying to sneak away to go see the Wall.

Ned is angry with them, too, but this new Ned is so serious all the time that his anger goes almost unnoticed. It's just as quiet as he is, nothing like Brandon's shouts or Lyanna's infamous tantrums. Lyanna can't reconcile this tall stranger with the brother that used to run around Winterfell with Brandon and her playing hide and seek. He's her brother, though, and when Robert Baratheon laughs at him after Lyanna beats him in their first sparring session she feels honor-bound to show the Southern Lord that in a match against _her_ Robert wouldn't fare any better.

It's been awhile since she's had new sparring partners, and when Robert finally agrees to take the challenge, thinking he's indulging Ned's little sister, everyone in the yard gathers around them, wanting to see her thrash him. That's the nice thing about fresh meat; they never see it coming.

Robert is no different.

It takes her all of ten seconds to disarm him the first time, using her speed to knock the sword out of his hand before he has had the time to realize that the match has already started. He laughs in good humor, claiming that he wasn't yet ready, and asks for a rematch.

"Best two out of three," he says, and Lyanna accepts, knowing that it won't change the outcome. He's big and strong, but much too slow to truly reach her, and his footwork shows the sloppiness of someone used to winning fights by sheer strength. Besides, he underestimates her, as most first timers do. 

Best two out three turns into best four out of seven, and by then Robert stops playing around. His mouth hardens into a thin line, and she can almost taste the moment when she stops being his best friend's silly kid sister and becomes a serious opponent. He's still too slow, and it's easy to use his strength and rising anger against him, sidestepping in the last second and using Robert's own momentum to make him lose his footing and overreach. Still, it takes her longer to win the fourth bout, and she can't help but grin, enjoying the challenge.

He asks for best six out of ten, and Lyanna laughs out loud but readily agrees. Most boys would have given up by now; she likes his perseverance.

"Enough," Ned says, coming to Robert's rescue.

"No, Ned, I want another try," Robert insists, rising to his feet. "She took me by surprise the first few times, that's all. Best six out of ten will do it."

"Robert, if you haven't realized yet that best forty out of fifty wouldn't be enough, there's no helping you. She's turning you into a laughing stock," Ned says with that devastating honesty that marks this new version of him.

She expects Robert to take offense, as most men would in his place, but he looks at her with a strange intensity she's never encountered before. His eyes travel up and down her body, lingering on places that make Lyanna want to beat him again just because.

"Well, there's no helping it then," Robert says, a small smile catching the corners of his lips and spreading across his whole face like fire on dry hay. "If I can't beat her with a sword, I'll just have to marry her. Baratheons like their women fierce. I couldn't find a better Lady for Storm's End were I to travel the Seven Kingdoms."

All the men in the yard laugh, and Lyanna can't shake the uncomfortable suspicion that this time it's her they are laughing at.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

Robert writes her letters about Storm's End, about his brothers, about the places he wants to show her, the life they will have together, the children he will give her. Lyanna doesn't care much for letters. She'd much rather ride horses and play with Benjen, but father makes her sit down and answer.

"It's a good way to get to know your future husband, Lyanna," Lord Rickard tells her.

"I don't want a husband," Lyanna mumbles. She had said as much to Robert, when it became clear that his offhand remark hadn't been meant as a joke. It had made Robert laugh. "Then I will just have to change your mind, my Lady." However, it hadn't been _her_ mind he'd gone out of his way to change, but her father's.

Lord Rickard sighs. "Darling, Lord Robert is a fantastic match. Better than anyone I could have hoped for. Not only is he Lord to one of the Great Houses, he also has ties to the king's family! And Lyanna, my child, he's in love with you. He'll probably indulge your horse riding and swordplay. What more could you possibly want?"

"Not to marry at all," Lyanna grouses. "I could stay here, at Winterfell, and become Brandon's Master-at-Arms. He says he'd take me. I'm really good with weapons. Please father, I don't want to live in the South. They don't even have proper winters or proper gods, everyone knows that. I like it here."

"You're still much too young, darling," her father says. "I've told Lord Robert that you're not to be wed until you turn six and ten, and he has agreed to wait. You've yet to have your first moon blood. Things will change after you flower. You'll want a husband and children." He chuckles and kisses her forehead. "Master-at-Arms, what an insane idea. You'll be the death of me, child."

Lyanna fears the mysterious moon blood everyone keeps mentioning. Even Old Nan seems to think that Lyanna will change after it comes. Lyanna can't imagine how some bit of blood could change anyone that much, and a part of her worries that they might be right. What if it _does_ change her? She doesn't want to become some lady that only cares about husbands and children. She likes who she is. She doesn't want to change, any more than she wants to marry Robert.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

Her moon blood comes, and it does change her, but not in the ways Lyanna feared. It's her body that grows, filling out in places that make boys and men stare when her father and brothers aren't looking. Her brothers' cast me downs no longer fit her, and her father refuses to purchase new breeches for her. He wants her to wear dresses all of a sudden, and no matter how much Lyanna protests he won't listen to reason.

It leads to another screaming match, and Lyanna is so furious she can barely breathe. She stomps out of the house ignoring her father's shouts and jumps onto her unsaddled horse. She rides away, spurring Winter to go faster when her father's men try to stop her, forcing them to scatter when she races by.

By the time she's managed to calm down, dusk has already set in. Lyanna stops her horse and looks around, surprised when she doesn't immediately recognize her surroundings. Night is falling and it is much too late to head back, not that Lyanna really wants to. The anger is still rolling in waves inside of her — the wolf blood —  and going back when she's like this is just a recipe for disaster.

She secures her mare and starts gathering dry wood for a fire. The sounds of the night creep in. In the distance she can hear owls hooting and the whispers of the wind among the trees. The new moon is just three days away, and Lyanna knows that the night will be a dark one. She's not afraid, though. Men in the North wouldn't dare to harm her, and if there was one fool enough to try, cutting the idiot's throat would be quick work. And for all that the North is full of horror stories about wild animals killing lost men, she knows that in truth it is men who kill wild animals more often than not.

The fire burns warm in the cold night. Above her the stars shine bright in the clear sky, breathtaking in their beauty. She'd much rather spend her life like this, under an open sky, than caged in some castle playing at being a Lady. 

If she'd be born male… she would probably be just as unhappy, truth be told. Brandon doesn't seem too content with his lot either, forced to become a Lord and marry some silly Southern wife who will only care about embroidery and children. It's the kind of life only Ned would want for himself, Ned who's become a half Southern. Not a drop of wolf blood in that one, Lyanna thinks rather fondly. Kind, loving, boring Ned.  

Her stomach growls with hunger, and Lyanna does her best to ignore it. She lies down near the fire and lets the sounds of the night and the heat lull her. She falls asleep trying to imagine the life she'd like to have, if given the choice. She'd go to the Free Cities, she thinks, become a sellsword and travel the world. A life filled with adventures and dangers, with no one to answer to but herself. The best kind of life.

She dreams she's a wolf, hunting in the woods. The snow is soft beneath her paws as she stalks her prey, slinking closer on silent feet. The stag flees when it sees her, and Lyanna howls and gives chase, hunger and instinct taking over. A surge of warm, fresh blood floods into her mouth as she closes her jaws on its soft throat, tearing at it. She swallows greedily as the life bleeds out of it. She reaps a chunk of flesh and gulps it down, satiating her hunger. It tastes delicious. 

It's not dawn yet when shouts wake her. She sits up, groggy, barely remembering where she is. The taste of blood still fresh in her mouth. Such an odd, vivid dream. 

Memories of the fight with her father come rushing back. When she listens again, it's her name people are shouting into the night. Far away she sees the flickering lights of torches and sighs. She lets herself fall back on the ground and closes her eyes wearily. A part of her still wants to make a run for it, but she knows it's pointless. Sooner or later she'll have to head back.

She doesn't call to the men, not wanting to hurry the moment when they finally find her. Her father will demand an apology, Lyanna knows, and it rankles that she will be forced to give one, as if _she_ was the one at fault. Why should her father have a say in the clothes she wears? The anger rekindles in her, but it's not soaring like before, just a useless, tame thing, like a lit-up fireplace, bright and warm, but contained and harmless.

Things are as they are, and raging about it won't change anything. Maybe she's growing up after all, she thinks, and the thought fills her with dismay.

Her mind wanders to Robert, and she wonders idly if he will let her dress as she pleases, or if he, too, will insist on what's proper and right for his Lady Wife. The torches are coming closer still, and Lyanna casts a longing look at the darkness of the hills further ahead. They remind her of her wolf dream, the rush of excitement as she chased her prey, the expanse of the unending forest surrounding her. _The freedom._

If she could choose her life, she thinks, that's what she'd like to be. A direwolf: fierce, feared and _free_. Not the tame bitch her father is training her to be, with her pretty collar and her prettier leash and the fitting Southern Lord to better hold it.  

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

A raven comes from the South inviting their family to a tourney at Harrenhal — a real tourney with jousting and sword-fights and melees. Lyanna wants to go and fight, show those Southerners than she's better than all of them put together.

"Fight at the tourney? What a crazy idea," her father laughs. "Soon you will be a married woman with responsibilities to your husband and your house. You need to grow up and leave these childish dreams behind, darling. You may go to Harrenhal with your brothers, but not to fight." He laughs again and shakes his head in disbelief. "You'll see Lord Baratheon again and meet your brother's fiancee, Lady Catelyn. Being friends with other Ladies of your own age will help you. Maybe Lady Catelyn can talk some sense into you. The gods know I've tried."

She bites back a sharp reply and mumbles her acceptance. If she can't participate in the tourney, watching it would be the next best thing. Lyanna knows her father well enough to recognize this is one of those arguments where he won't change his mind. His willingness to indulge her whims has faded over the years. Everyone keeps insisting she needs to grow up, but Lyanna would much rather stay a child forever, at least then nothing seemed impossible. If growing up means giving up her dreams, she'd rather skip the whole thing.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

Lyanna has never seen so many people together, not even on a market day in White Harbor. The South, Lyanna discovers, is a loud, overcrowded place, with people constantly shouting and moving around. Not a mile of road goes by where they don't encounter other riders or some kind of town or at least an inn eager to take their coin in exchange for food and drinks. It's nothing like the North, where the king's road stretches for days at a time with hardly a traveler in sight.

It's easy to get lost in the South, and at times Lyanna feels almost invisible. In the North, everyone knows who she is: Lord Rickard Stark's only daughter, the Lady of Winterfell. Even the lowest of farmers know her name.

Here, she's one more Lady among many. She might be the daughter of a Lord Paramount  but most people don't know that when they see at her. Her dresses are sturdy and plain, made to resist the cold of the North, lacking the frills, laces and colors the Southern ladies favor.

Lyanna studies the Southern Ladies with barely contained curiosity. They look frail and soft, like puffed-up summer birds, trilling and chirping and giggling for no apparent reason. They seem foreign to Lyanna, and she can't quite shake the feeling that she stands out like a sore thumb, unable to blend in. Too simple. Too Northern. Too other.

Lyanna smiles and curtsies and tries her best to be the kind of woman that would make her father proud. Lady Catelyn takes her under her wing, introducing Lyanna to all of her friends, sharing useless gossip with her about engagements and scandals, alliances and feuds. She advises her on how to dress and teaches her how to pin her hair up in a Southern style. They talk about fabrics and laces and the best tailors to order dresses from, and for moments it feels as if Lyanna could belong. Most times, though, it's exhausting, like wearing an ill-fitting armor, constantly aware of all the places it keeps slipping, showing glimpses of her true-self—a Northern girl, lacking the refinement of a Southern Lady.

Robert doesn't seem to mind, though. He stares at her like a starving man in front of a banquet, desperate for the host to give the signal to dig in. He strips her with his eyes, his gaze lingering in places that make Lyanna want to slap him even though she knows she can't. He's her betrothed; he's allowed to look at her however he wants, but it still makes her skin crawl when he comes near.

He introduces her to the royal family, talking about her like she's some prized mare he just purchased. His cousin, king Aerys II is an ugly excuse of a man, scabbed over and jittery, with sunken eyes and a mad laugh that chills Lyanna to the bone whenever she hears it. His son, prince Rhaegar, comes closer to Lyanna's childish image of what royalty ought to look like, tall and handsome, _regal_. Princess Elia, on the other hand, is as disappointing as the king, a quiet, frail woman who reminds Lyanna of the statues in the crypts of Winterfell with their ghostly beauty and unyielding gaze.  

Whenever she can get away with it, Lyanna slips away from Lady Catelyn and Robert, to go watch the squires and knights practice, trying to discern their fighting styles, so different from those in the North. Her hands ache with the desire to take a sword and challenge them, wanting to see how their extravagant, showy moves would fare against the Northern straightforward and simple approach. Her father has forbidden it, though, and Brandon made it clear that he would make sure that she obeyed the command. All that Lyanna can do is hide in the shadows and watch from a distance.

It's on such an occasion that she sees three squires, not much older than herself, bullying one of her father's bannermen, pushing him around and laughing when he tries to defend himself. Before she knows what she's doing, she has already advanced on the three boys, demanding that they leave her father's man alone.

"What are you gonna do about it, little lady?" one of the boys taunts her, turning to her with a mocking smirk.

It is an invitation if Lyanna has ever heard one. Her father and his rules are suddenly forgotten, erased by the bloodlust howling inside her, demanding that she show them exactly what she can and will do. She takes one of the practice swords lying around and raises it. The boys laugh, forgetting her father's man for the moment and turning to her. 

Three on one. Lyanna laughs, too, because she loves a good, hard fight. It makes winning so much sweeter. It's almost disappointing how little time it takes her to send their swords flying. "Run," she says, and she sounds like the wolf she is. They squeak and scramble away, running as fast as their legs can carry them.

A part of her wants to give chase, finish off the easy prey. Instead, she forces herself to take a deep breath and turn to the man lying on the floor, wearing her father's colors.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

"Yes, thank you, my Lady," he says, standing up with some difficulty. He doesn't quite meet her eyes. "I apologize for shaming your father's bannermen."

Lyanna frowns. "Did you do something to shame my father's bannermen?"

"I wasn't able to fight off those squires, even though they were just boys," he says, looking at his feet.

"Nonsense," Lyanna says. "They are the only ones who ought to feel ashamed, ganging up three on one like that. Someone ought to teach them better manners. What's your name?"

"Howland Reed," the man answers. "I'm a crannogman from the Neck," he adds, reluctantly, as if expecting to be mocked for it.

"My father speaks greatly of you," Lyanna says, which is not quite true, but it's not a total lie either. Her father has mentioned crannogmen before. "You're loyal subjects, and talented fighters." Mostly, her father thinks that their fighting is a bit craven, but Lyanna disagrees. A fight is a fight, and the only thing that matters is winning it. If the crannogmen use smarts against size then that only speaks for them. "I know so little about your people. Will you tell me more?" she asks.

It takes some convincing, but she gets Howland to come with her. She and Benjen pester him with questions endlessly under the premise of tending to his wounds.

Howland knows about poisons and plants, and how to best hide in the forest, covering your tracks so that dogs or animals can't follow you. Lyanna decides that she likes him more than she does Lady Catelyn or her friends. He's certainly more interesting, and the things he has to teach more practical than listening to silly gossip. She and Benjen convince him to accompany them to the fest that night, and Lyanna is glad to have an excuse to stay away from the other women.

Ned and Robert sit with them, but soon enough only she and Benjen are talking to Howland. Robert and Brandon are distracted by the drinks and the music and have both entered into some inane competition to figure out who can outdrink whom, while Ned tries his best to run interference. 

Across the table, Lady Catelyn's lips are pursed in displeasure, as she watches her fiancee make a fool of himself. Lyanna has the strong suspicion that Lady Catelyn will not be as happy in her marriage as she probably expects. At least Lyanna has no illusions about her future. She knows she will be miserable away from the North.

She pushes away her dark thoughts and turns her attention to Howland, trying to console him to no avail.

"I'm sorry, my Lady," he says. "I know I'm not good company tonight. I just feel so useless and powerless. You say crannogmen are good fighters, and we are, but what good are our tactics here in the open? Those boys still took my sword and my armor, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it." He takes another swallow of ale and sighs. "You don't understand. I hate feeling this helpless, knowing that there's nothing I can do to make them give back what is rightfully mine."  

Lyanna glances at Robert, laughing louder than before and swatting the rump of the unlucky maid in charge of refilling his cup. She knows all too well what helplessness feels like. She hates the feeling, too.

"I have an idea," she whispers to Howland and Benjen.

She might not be able to do much about Robert, but it is in her power to help her new friend.

One last act of rebellion, before she becomes the daughter her father expects her to be.  


	2. Chapter 2

When she gallops onto the tourney field for the first time, Lyanna's heart beats so loudly that it is all she can hear. She's terrified that someone will recognize her or figure out somehow that she's a woman.

Her armor is ill-fitting, scraped together from mismatched pieces that she, Howland and Benjen managed to scavenge here and there, but her sword and lance are excellent and so is her horse. Those are the three things she wasn't willing to compromise on. A Northern horse, fast and strong, bred to survive winter and ride fast even on treacherous snow, and a fine steel sword she'd brought from Winterfell hidden in the bottom of her trunk. It had been crafted for her, light and well-balanced, with a small but quick fighter in mind.

"I'm the Knight of the Laughing Tree," she booms when prompted for a name by the scribe in charge of arranging the matches, deepening her voice as much as she can.

"What house?" the scribe asks, but doesn't bother to look at her as he writes down the words on his book.

"I'm entering as a mystery knight," she says, trying to keep the deepness of her voice.

The scribe raises his head then, feather poised inches away from the ink pot. "A mystery knight?" He tilts his head as he studies her, taking in her armor and height. His eyebrows rise with skepticism and his mouth purses. "This is a serious tourney, young man, if your master doesn't think you're ready yet, entering your name without his permission will only get you in trouble."

"I'm not a squire," Lyanna snaps, trying to sound confident.

The scribe huffs, unconvinced. "If you say so. Well, the rules allow for mystery knights to enter. If you so desperately want to prove yourself, nobody can stop you. Go to that corner and wait for your name to be called."

And just like that she's entered the tourney.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

It's fun, more fun that she ever imagined it would be. Lyanna had known she could win, but she had underestimated what a difference a real crowd would make. There's a rush of adrenaline and excitement every time the crowd cheers. Lyanna _loves_ it. Soon, she's playing for them, galloping extra fast and forcing her horse to rear up, while she raises her lance into the air, making the crowd scream louder.

She defeats all her opponents and forces the knights to give Howland's armor back and to apologize to him in the name of their squires. It's all she wanted to accomplish and yet so much more.

That night, the Knight of the Laughing Tree is all people talk about. Lyanna revels in it, pleased beyond words with the mayhem she has caused. Howland and Benjen can't stop snickering.

The wildest stories buzz about like flies circling rotten meat. It's utterly ridiculous. Everyone has a theory about the knight's true identity: a long-lost Blackfyre, who came to usurp the throne; a sell-sword from Davos, who wants to win the money; Jaime Lannister, back to fight under a disguise despite the king's orders. Lyanna laughs and adds wood to the fire by spinning her own wild tales.

Even Lady Catelyn's boring friends spend the night talking about the handsome stranger—how they would know if he was handsome or not without having seen him, Lyanna doesn't bother to ask. Each of them is convinced that the knight surely will crown _them_ Queen of Love and Beauty, and the notion is so ridiculous that Lyanna has to bite her lips not to say something that might betray her.

And if the young ladies all think the mystery knight is their future husband in waiting, the men act as if his existence was a personal offense. They can't stop criticizing his fighting or bragging about how, if they had been the ones to fight him, the mystery knight would have been already defeated. They drink and gripe, telling everyone who wants to hear—and some who don't—how _they_ are going to be the ones to unmask the knight the very next day.

Somehow Robert manages to be the worst, or so it seems to Lyanna. He's drunk and loud and is constantly boasting about how no one is good enough to best _him_.

"I swear it, Lya," Robert slurs in her ear, his words slipping and tripping over each other with too much alcohol.  "I'll defeat that coward who won't even show his face and win you the crown. I'll make you queen!"

Lyanna puts a bit of distance between them, the stink of alcohol almost too much to bear.

"I doubt it very much," she says, a bit offended on her own behalf. As if Robert of all people could defeat her. Robert's idea of jousting is pointing his lance straight ahead and galloping at full force while holding it steady. He's a strong man, and the strategy serves him well more often than not, but there's more to jousting than brute force for all he seems to always forget it.

"I'll prove it to you!" he says, loudly enough that probably the whole hall can hear him. "Tomorrow, I'll defeat the mystery knight and bring you his shield as a trophy!"

And just like that Lyanna knows. She won't let that challenge go unanswered. It might be unwise, but her little adventure will continue. She will make Robert eat his words, maybe with a nice helping of dirt.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

The crowd cheers when they see her, and Lyanna gallops across the field, lance held high, bowing to them. She comes to the far end and turns around, forcing her horse to rear up once while she waits for the first match to begin.

Lord Monmouth is the first to ride into the lists. They face each other, lances ready, horses whinnying and pawing at the ground in excitement. The signal comes and Lyanna spurs her horse forward. Through the narrow field of her visor she sees Lord Monmouth approaching at full speed, his lance straight and firm, pointed towards her shield.

Her instructor told her there's no time to _think_ once the jousting starts. It all comes down to instincts, riding skill and muscle memory. He was right, of course, but for Lyanna the seconds before the impact stretch into an eternity.

Maybe it is instincts and skill or just her _damned bitch luck_ , but those impossibly long seconds are all she needs to see a rider's weakness, to _know_ where she has to aim to unhorse him. Aim at the center, her trainer told her, and that's what everyone does, but it's seldom the center that gives. It's the places where the body isn't in perfect alignment with the horse carrying it, tilted forward or to the side half an inch too much. That one spot in the shield that, when hit properly, will push the shield and arm holding it just so, sending a wave across the body until it breaks its balance. Like hitting a crack in a stone wall and watching it widen and spread until the whole wall comes crumbling down.  

Lyanna hits the spot, and Lord Monmouth falls from his horse in a tangle of red and black and yellow. The crowd cheers as Lyanna makes her horse come to an abrupt stop and rear up, drunk with her victory.

The king beckons her closer, his eyes gleaming with something that Lyanna can't quite decipher. The Mad King, people call him, and Lyanna thinks that it's not without reason. Reluctantly, she walks her horse closer and remembers to bow her head in respect almost too late.

She needs to say something, greet the king. It would be the proper thing to do, but the words won't come. Her throat is too dry and inside her armor she is trembling. If she were to speak, her voice would come out as a squeak, faltering and breaking in all the wrong places. The charade would be over at once.

Foolish hubris, coming to the tourney a second day. She should have let it be as she had initially planned. Damn Robert, and damn herself for being unable to resist his challenge.   

"Show your face!" the king bellows. 

She freezes. She can't do as he bids. If her charade is discovered, her father will kill her. And no matter how scary the Mad King looks right now, the idea of her father's anger, even though he is back at Winterfell, seems even more threatening. She stays still, paralyzed by indecision, trying to decide what to do, all too-aware that one doesn't refuse a king's order, but unable to obey.

The princess and her ladies stare at her. _Everyone_ is staring at her. She senses the moment when she's waited too long, sees the frown starting to form on king's face, the bewilderment of those sitting next to him, hears the quiet whispers of the crowd gaining momentum as it becomes clear that she's about to defy the king.

"Guards, detain him!" the king orders, and the words set her in motion.

Before anyone has time to react, she spurs her horse and rides away, jumping over the fence and galloping as fast as she can. The guards shout at her to stop, and the clank of men in armor and swords drawn follows close behind as they give chase, but Lyanna is not the best rider in the North for nothing. By the time the guards reach their horses, she is already almost outside the castle, and once on the road is easy for her to lose them.

She jumps off the horse and sets it free, shooing it away, hoping the riders will follow its tracks. It is a pity to lose such a fine mount, but she can't be seen with him again or she'll be recognized.

She's in the process of hiding the last pieces of her armor, when she notices two riders approaching from the North. She tries her best to hide in the bushes without catching their attention.

They rein in their mounts and look around. For a moment she thinks she'll stay unnoticed, but then one of the riders sees her, and starts galloping towards her at full speed, his companion following close behind. Lyanna looks around herself: most pieces of her armor are gone, but the incriminating shield with the laughing tree is still there. Desperately, she thinks of a plausible lie to tell and comes empty.

The men stop in front of her and her heart sinks as she recognizes them: Prince Rhaegar and Ser Arthur, two of the best fighters in the kingdom. She thinks of her discarded sword longingly and curses the moment she sent her horse away. On a horse, she'd have had a chance to escape. Right now she's at their mercy.

"Where did the knight go?" Prince Rhaegar asks. "You better tell us the truth, lad, helping him—no matter what he promised you—will only bring you sorrow."

 _Lad?_ Lyanna looks at the prince in disbelief. It takes her a second to understand that he actually doesn't suspect her. He doesn't even know who she is. Robert had introduced her at court as his betrothed on the day of their arrival, but the prince probably doesn't even remember her. Taking quick stock, Lyanna realizes that she's not dressed like a girl. Her hair is tucked away in a simple ponytail boys with longer hair prefer, like the prince himself, instead of one of the complicated hairdos women favor. Obviously, to the prince's eyes, she looks like just another peasant.

She can't believe her own luck. "I'm not aiding anyone, m'lord," she says, imitating the thick accent and mannerisms of the smith's boy when he talks to her father. A peasant wouldn't know that he was talking to the prince, would he? "I saw a horse galloping that way." She points towards the river, where the tracks of the horse lead. "I was just a-looking at the things here. I wasn't gonna steal anything, m'lord. I swear. Please, don't punish me," she adds with a quiver in her voice.

The prince throws a copper piece at her, and Lyanna catches it mid-air. "Scurry away, and don't you dare take anything. Those weapons belong to the king. If they are not here when I return, I'll know who to blame," the prince says and gallops away, following the tracks of the horse, Ser Arthur close behind.

How gullible, Lyanna thinks with a smirk and flips the coin in the air, catching it as it falls. As keepsakes go it will have to do; she obviously can't take the shield. It's not worth the risk. She walks backs to Harrenhal whistling all the way.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

In the afternoon the tourney continues as if nothing had happened. There are still rumors flying around, and for once Lyanna pays attention to the gossip, fearful that someone might follow them back to her. However, she soon realizes that she has nothing to fear. The story seems to grow with the telling, and by late afternoon the mystery knight is already ten feet tall and broad as a bear, his horse a purebred Dothraki stallion from Essos, the likes of which had never been seen in the Seven Kingdoms before.

Lyanna shakes her head at everyone's willful blindness and counts her blessings. Howland and Benjen laugh along with her, and the three of them grow even closer, united by the mischievous smugness of having gotten away with it all.

When Ser Arthur unhorses Robert with a spectacular move Lyanna's day improves tenfold. The knowledge that she will no longer have to listen to Robert brag on and on about all the knights he intends to defeat in her name is enough to lift her spirits. Better yet, after the tourney Robert seems to be avoiding her, for which she's only too glad. When he is around, Lyanna feels as if she needs to become someone she isn't—in love and happy to have him near, when all she feels is dread of the day when he will marry her and take her away from home.

During the evening feast Ned drags Robert to her, giving Lyanna a warning look to treat his friend kindly. She pastes on her best smile and tries to be the girl she's supposed to be. "You rode well today, Robert," she lies, trying to sound reassuring and, if Ned's relieved expression is anything to judge by, succeeding.

"I lost," Robert mumbles, not meeting her eyes.

"Yes, but what a way to lose," Lyanna says, admiration in her voice. "Ser Arthur was magnificent! I've never seen anyone joust like him. He was fantastic!"

"What Lyanna is trying to say," Ned interrupts her, his voice sharp, "is that there's no shame in losing to Ser Arthur. He's one of the best fighters of the kingdom. Really, Robert, you needn't be disappointed."

"I swore to Lady Lyanna I would crown her Queen of Love and Beauty," Robert tells Ned, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. "Nobody deserves that crown more than your sister."

"It's nice that you think so, Robert," she reassures him, "but if I wanted the crown I could win it for myself."

"Bold words, my Lady," a man says and Lyanna turns around to find Prince Rhaegar and Ser Arthur standing just behind her.

She freezes, and her heart hammers in her chest with fear before she belatedly remembers to curtsey. "Your grace, such an honor," she says, keeping her voice low and her gaze fixed on the floor, praying to the old gods that the prince and Ser Arthur don't recognize her.

Robert laughs out loud, some of his good cheer returning to him. "You don't know half of it, cousin," he says to Prince Rhaegar. "Lady Stark is one of the best riders in the North."

"Well, she will have a hard time unhorsing you, Robert," Ser Arthur says, "the Seven know it wasn't an easy feat. You were an excellent opponent."

Prince Rhaegar smiles at his cousin, and Robert preens, pride restored. Lyanna has the sudden suspicion that this little scene has been staged for her benefit.

"I have unhorsed Robert before, and it wasn't _that_ difficult," Lyanna has the urge to point out. "Maybe you aren't as skilled as I initially thought," she tells Ser Arthur.

Prince Rhaegar regards her with curiosity. "You have unhorsed him before?"

The doubt in his voice is enough to make Lyanna forget caution. She meets his eyes straight on, unable to help the smug smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "Oh, yes, I have."

"She has indeed," Robert confirms with a chuckle and winks at her. "I was so taken by her beauty that I could no longer tell up from down, and next thing I knew I was at her feet. That's when I knew I would spend the rest of my life there, at my Lady's mercy."

Ned and Ser Arthur laugh, but Lyanna doesn't join them, angry at Robert without really knowing why. The prince doesn't laugh either; he's looking at her instead, as if she holds the key to some unsolved mystery he desperately wants to figure out. Lyanna sees the moment when he makes the connection between her and the boy in the woods, between her and the Knight of the Laughing Tree. His lilac eyes widen and a shadow of recognition rushes across his face. He blinks and shakes his head before fixing her again with those strange purple eyes of his, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.  

"Wise choice, cousin. Who wouldn't like that?" he says to Robert, but he is looking at her. "Spending a lifetime at the mercy of a woman with Visenya's fighting skills and her breathtaking beauty."  

The laughter dies, and a heavy silence falls upon them. "Your Grace," Ser Arthur says after a moment. "It'd be best if we go back. Princess Elia is probably looking for you."

"In a moment," Prince Rhaegar says. "Cousin," he turns to Robert, "would you mind if I borrow your lovely fiancee for a dance?" He makes it sound like a question, and yet everyone knows it's not.

"If she agrees," Robert deflects, and though his voice is nonchalant, Lyanna knows him enough to detect a hint of jealousy in the tone.

"Lady Stark, would you do me the honor?" Prince Rhaegar asks, turning to her. He bows his head slightly and offers her his hand. Lyanna looks helplessly at Ned, hoping he will give her some kind of hint. Should she agree? Can she refuse the prince? Ned lives in the South, he ought to know what is expected of her. Ned nods slightly, but he looks as unhappy about it as Robert does. Even Ser Arthur's lips are pursed.  

Lyanna turns to the prince, still unsure, and takes the proffered hand. "It would be my pleasure," she says, and allows the prince to lead her to the dance floor before the next song begins.

They take their place among the dancers and bow to each other. The prince's hand feels hot against her cold, clammy fingers. The music starts, and Lyanna concentrates in following the steps, back and forth, and again to the side, allowing Prince Rhaegar to lead her through the complex choreography.

"It was you, wasn't it?" he asks in her ear, after leading her through a double spin that ends with her inches away from his chest.  

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, your Grace," Lyanna replies, hoping that he will let it go.

They step away from each other, the tips of their fingers the only point of contact left between them. The music speeds up once more, and all too soon, the movements bring them closer and closer.

"Don't lie to me. Once was bad enough; don't do it again," he tells her, and his fingers crush her hand in a silent warning before he eases his grip and spins her away from him with a practiced flick of his wrist.

The music dies down to a slow, steady drumming and the two of them circle each other, forearm to forearm, a perfect mirror of the other dancers building a line across the ballroom. Lyanna meets Prince Rhaegar's gaze unflinchingly.

"I've never lied to you, your Grace."

"This morning, in the woods. Or are you going to deny it was you?"

"I didn't lie," Lyanna defends herself.

Prince Rhaegar's lips harden into a thin line. "You told me you saw the knight galloping towards the river. You lied, my lady."

"I only told you that I saw a _horse_ leaving that way. And I did see one. A horse, that is. I never said anything about the rider," Lyanna corrects him with a cheeky smile.

Prince Rhaegar laughs out loud, and it transforms his face. Someone ought to make him laugh more, she thinks, surprised at the change. He looks years younger and much kinder, instead of stiff and aloof.

"You have a beautiful laugh," she says, before she can think better of it and regrets it almost immediately.

The prince stops laughing, and his pale cheeks redden slightly as if ashamed to have been caught so unguarded, but his face is still alight with amusement. He shakes his head and snorts. "I wonder if Robert knows what he's getting into."

"He'll figure it out soon enough." Lyanna shrugs, displeased by the reminder. For a moment, she'd forgotten Robert entirely. "You're not going to tell on me, are you?" she beseeches. "I'll get into so much trouble. Besides, everyone has forgotten about the Knight of the Laughing Tree, and at this point no one would believe I was the one behind it. Ten feet tall—"

"—and broad as a bear." Prince Rhaegar huffs and shakes his head in disbelief. "Yes, I've heard it, too."

"Can it remain our secret? Please?" She stretches the last word into a pout and bats her eyelashes at him. It makes her look ridiculous, but somehow her father and brothers seem unable to resist the look, and she hopes Prince Rhaegar is no different.   

He chuckles, and his expression grows softer, almost fond. "Yes," he agrees, "It can stay our secret. After all, having such a lovely lady in my debt can only be to my benefit."

Lyanna smiles with relief. "And what do you intend to do with that debt?" she asks, before he spins her away from him.

"Maybe I'll ask for your favor," Prince Rhaegar whispers to her, when she steps closer. His warm breath caresses her cheek as he leans in.

"Why, you don't think that you can win the tourney without it?" Lyanna whispers back.

"Maybe I would just like to have it." Prince Rhaegar replies as the dance draws to a close.

"I only give my favor to those worthy of it," Lyanna informs him, deadpan. "I've yet to see you joust. How would I know if you deserve it? Ask me again tomorrow, after I've seen you in the lists. Then I'll decide." She curtseys to him a final time.

Prince Rhaegar bows his head and his smile widens. "You drive a hard bargain, my Lady."

Lyanna raises her head, aiming for the haughty air Lady Catelyn seems to carry so easily. "I'm a daughter of winter, and winter is not known for its mercy, your Grace."

Prince Rhaegar is about to reply, but Robert cuts in, taking Lyanna's hand and leading her away to join the new dance that is about to begin. Lyanna's smile drops for an instant before she forces it back into place. Across the room Ned is grinning at her, and Lyanna reminds herself that Robert is her future. She needs to learn to like him.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

Strangely enough, dancing with Prince Rhaegar raises her status among Lady Catelyn's friends. They all want to talk to her to find out everything there is to know, even things Lyanna herself doesn't remember.

"He's such a good dancer," Lady Eloyse says, and sighs longingly. "Almost as good as Prince Martell. You're such a lucky girl."

She is, of course, Prince Rhaegar could have told the king the truth about the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Somehow, though, she doesn't think that's what Lady Eloyse is referring to.

"Really, Eloyse, you should keep your eyes off Prince Martell. Nothing good will come out of that, and you know it," Lady Catelyn says. "His reputation is worse than Lord Baratheon's."   

"Robert's?" Lyanna asks, surprised. "What reputation?"

Lady Catelyn pales a bit, and looks as if she'd like the earth to swallow her. "Forget what I said, please."

"No." Lyanna's voice doesn't let room for argument. "What reputation?"

Lady Catelyn swallows and looks to her friends as if asking for help, but they avoid her gaze. "It's really nothing," Lady Catelyn insists, aiming for dismissive and failing.

"Then, surely you will not have a problem telling me about it, if it's really nothing," Lyanna replies tersely.

"It's just that… well, I don't know if you've heard about it. Lord Baratheon's…," she trails off.

Lyanna purses her lips and crosses her arms, making sure Lady Catelyn knows that she is willing to wait as long as it takes. She's not going to give up until she knows the full story.  

Lady Catelyn caves in. She breathes in and out and glances at her friends once more before turning to Lyanna. "He sired a bastard back in the Vale," she finally confesses. "It doesn't mean anything, though," she hurries to reassure her. "Even a blind man can see how taken Lord Baratheon is with you. Once you've married him, he'll keep to your bed, I'm sure." But she doesn't sound sure. "Now Prince Martell, that man would not know how to keep to anyone's bed. He has sired three daughters already, and rumor has it a fourth child is on its way. Men like him only want one thing from women, to get into her bedsheets, which is why it is best to stop them before they get any ideas." She turns to Lady Eloyse. "Stay away from Dornish men. The last thing you need, it's people questioning your virtue. You are engaged and it's a good prospect, too. Rumors like that could end a marriage before it begins."

"It depends," Lady Eloyse says, and laughs. "Sometimes all rumors do is hurry up the marriage even more."

The girls giggle and even Lady Catelyn joins in, trying her best to pretend nothing has changed, as if her little faux pas was already forgotten. "You're impossible. Truly, Eloyse, what will Lady Lyanna think?"

They all laugh louder, and it's obvious to Lyanna that no one really cares what she thinks. For them, she is just a country girl from the North, who doesn't know a thing about the South and its customs.

Lyanna forces herself to laugh along, even if it sounds fake. She looks longingly at the table where Brandon sits with Lord Tully and Ned, and wishes, not for the first time, that he could sit with them instead of having to listen to Lady Catelyn and her vapid friends. She glances at Robert from the corner of her eye. He, too, sits with Brandon, laughing out loud with that booming laugh of his that can be heard from yards away.

Suddenly it seems impossible to fake good cheer. She excuses herself, needing to be alone.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

That evening, Prince Rhaegar asks her for another dance.

Robert's eyes feel like daggers on Lyanna's back as she follows the prince to the center of the ballroom.

Prince Rhaegar doesn't seem to notice his cousin's displeasure, and if he does, he just ignores it. He bows to Lyanna, and offers her his hand once more. Their palms touch, her fingers much too cold against his warm skin. The music begins at his signal, and the two of them spin around the ballroom with the ease of long practice.

"Did you enjoy the jousting today?" he asks her.

Lyanna leans close to whisper in his ear, "Not as much as when I was jousting myself, but it was passable."

He laughs, delighted, and Lyanna blushes with pride at being the cause.

"Ah, so I didn't manage to impress you after all?" Amusement plays hide and seek in the corners of his lips. "And I was so hoping that after today you would find me worthy of your favor."

"It will take more than unhorsing a green knight who can barely keep his seat to impress me," Lyanna deadpans. "Truly, where did Lord Grafton learn to ride? At a piggery?"

Prince Rhaegar snorts. "You are a very harsh judge, my lady. The boy is barely ten and six. You should go easy on him."

"I'm ten and five, and I can ride better," Lyanna says. "I don't see why I have to go easy on him. Nobody goes easy on _me_. Nor would I want them to."

"Ah, but we have established that you, my dear lady, have Visenya's spirit. How could a green boy from the Vale ever compare?" Prince Rhaegar whispers. His breath ghosts against her ear, sending shivers down Lyanna's back. "It'd be like asking a candle to outshine the sun."

Lyanna blushes, and her heart skips a beat for no reason. For a moment, she is at a loss for words. "You probably say that to every woman," she finally mumbles, feeling awkward.

"Hardly, my lady. You are the only woman I know who could join a tourney and unhorse Lord Monmouth as if it was nothing."

"It was nothing," Lyanna murmurs, embarrassed and yet pleased by the compliment.

Prince Rhaegar chuckles. "Impressing you is going to be a hard task indeed." He seems excited by the prospect, though, almost eager.

Lyanna gives him a shy smile. "You're the crown prince of the Seven Kingdom. I'm sure you'll manage somehow."

"Will you at least wish me luck for tomorrow?"

"Luck is a loser's excuse. If you truly want to impress me, it's skill you need, not luck," Lyanna replies as the music dies.

Robert is immediately there, cutting in again, taking her away from the prince, his lips pursed into an angry line.

"What does he want with you?" he asks once Prince Rhaegar is out of earshot, glaring at his cousin's back.

"To dance?" Lyanna guesses.

"He has his own wife," Robert snaps. "He should dance with her and keep his hands off mine."

"We are not married yet, Robert," Lyanna reminds him, but that seems to anger him even more. "What do you expect from me?" she snaps, done with his childish attitude. "I can hardly refuse to dance with the king's son, now can I?"

"Of course not. I'm not accusing _you_ of anything," Robert tries to placate her. "It's he who should mind himself."

"Don't be silly." Lyanna rolls her eyes. "Your cousin just wants to do you a favor, showing everyone that he approves of your country fiancee. Lady Catelyn's friends have certainly become much more accommodating since he started dancing with me. It's just politics."

"As if I need anyone's approval," Robert says, offended. "I'm Lord of my house. I can make my own choices. Besides, you are the best woman anyone could want. I don't need my cousin's good will to know that."

"Thank you, Robert." She smiles.

Robert grins back, somewhat appeased. He keeps pulling her closer and closer as they dance, until her breasts are almost brushing against his chest. Lyanna lets him get away with it.

Her gaze seeks Prince Rhaegar. He is sitting at the high table, sipping at his wine, watching her and Robert dance. Their eyes catch, and for a moment it is as if the two of them are alone in the room. She forces herself to look away, focusing on the dance and Robert with his wandering hands and easy laugh. Jealous, possessive Robert, who claims to love her while he fathers bastards in the Vale.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

Rhaegar does try to impress her. The stunts he pulls during the last bout of jousting are so breathtaking as to be almost foolish. He gallops across the field so fast that he seems a blur, his red and black cloak flapping behind him like a sail in the wind.

"The prince is brilliant!" Benjen shouts next to her as he stands up, clapping and whistling as loud as he can. Lyanna can barely hear him over the loud cheers.

"His horse is magnificent," she says, clapping along with a bit more restraint. "The prince is not a bad rider, though."

Benjen sticks his tongue out and crinkles his nose. "You're just jealous."

"That he can participate in the tourney while I can't? Yes, terribly so," she admits.

Brandon, who has been listening in, pets her hair. "Now, sister mine, even you would have had a hard time unhorsing the prince. If nothing else, father's orders saved your pride."

Lyanna stares at him flatly. "How thoughtful of him," she says with as much sarcasm as she can muster.

Brandon laughs out loud as if she'd just told the best joke in the world. Lyanna pretends to ignore him, turning her attention to the field, where Prince Rhaegar is getting ready to face his next opponent.  

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

That night, when they dance, Lyanna is the first to speak. "Still not impressed."

"Why am I not surprised? I wonder what it would take," Prince Rhaegar says with a mischievous expression that makes him look almost boyish.

Lyanna peeks around, making sure that no one is close enough to overhear them. "Meet me tonight at midnight, at the clearing where you found the shield."

The grip of his hand around hers hardens for a second, and he almost misses a step in the dance. His eyes darken, and in the light of the thousand candles their purple hue seems almost black. He wets his lips. "That's…," he rasps out. He stops and clears his throat before he tries again, "That's bold."

"I'm a bold woman," Lyanna admits, taking pride in the fact. "I will bring my sword, and we will settle this once and for all."

"Your sword?" he asks, seeming surprised.

"So we can find out who the better fighter is," Lyanna explains. "Jousting would be too complicated. I don't have any armor left, and the terrain in the woods is not good for it anyway."

"Ah… I see." Rhaegar's face softens as he smiles. "A sensible proposition," he agrees. There's an odd, thoughtful look on his face that Lyanna can't quite read, warm and yet wary.

"Don't underestimate me," she warns him. She's not some fragile thing he needs to protect. "I can hold my own."

"I would never underestimate you, Lady Stark," he tells her.  

Lyanna frowns. "You'll be there then, right?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."


	3. Chapter 3

The minutes stretch like hours as she waits for her brothers to retire. She lets one more hour pass and waits for the clock to strike eleven, before she slides out of her room on silent feet. The night air is warmer than Lyanna is used to, humid and heavy, nothing like the crisp breeze in the North, which always carries the threat of snow.

The guards on duty are distracted playing cards and drinking wine; walking past them unnoticed poses little challenge. The moon is almost full and the sky free of clouds. The way is easy enough to follow in the moonlight, and she makes it to the woods with a couple of minutes to spare. The brisk walk warms her up, and her shirt clings to her back with sweat by the time she arrives at the arranged meeting point. 

She takes her sword out from its sheath while she waits and goes through some quick routines to loosen the muscles in her arms and legs. Midnight comes and goes. The faint echo of the tower's bells telling the hour is carried by the wind in the quiet night. She continues to practice, glad for the excuse to wield a sword. After a while, she stops, panting with exertion and looks around. Rhaegar has not come, and for the first time she wonders if he will. Doubts nag at her, despite Lyanna's efforts to push them away. He will come, she tells herself, and starts practicing again, brandishing her sword faster and faster, pushing her body to keep away the unwanted thoughts.

The sound of horse hooves in the otherwise quiet night catch her attention, and she turns around, trying to identify the rider. She stashes her sword among the roots of a thick tree and quick as a squirrel, climbs its trunk and hides. It would be difficult to explain what she was doing here if the rider turns out not to be Rhaegar.

She recognizes the long silver-white hair. It flies over Rhaegar's shoulders in rhythm with the horse's stride. He's a handsome man, Lyanna thinks, surprising herself. It's not the kind of thing she usually notices or cares about, but as he rides closer, his perfect posture, his confidence, even the way his cloak sways behind him conspire to take Lyanna's breath away, and her stomach flutters with an odd mix of anticipation and dread.

Surely she is not afraid to lose, is she? She shakes her head, trying to chase off the uncertainty. She _will_ win and prove to herself—and to him—that he really is not that impressive, just one more man among many.

He comes to stop next to the tree and reins his horse in as he looks around, searching for her. Lyanna is tempted to let him wait, give him a taste of his own medicine, but she is too impatient to get to the actual fight to go through with it.

"And here I was starting to think that you were too afraid to show up, your Grace," she says, and chuckles with no small amount of glee when he startles, turning around with a jolt, before he finally discovers her among the tree branches.

"Lady Stark," he says, and tilts his head in greeting as if they were still in the castle, and he was about to ask for a dance. "I apologize for my tardiness; shaking off the kingsguards is not an easy feat. Do you need help to come down?" he asks.

Ignoring his proffered hand, Lyanna takes hold of the branch she's sitting on and lets herself drop to the ground, landing in a perfect crouch. She comes to her feet with an easy motion and curtsies briefly. She offers him her hand instead. "Do _you_ need help to come down?" she mocks him, imitating his haughty Southern accent.

He jumps off of his horse deftly, and before Lyanna has time to react, takes her raised hand and kisses it. "For years, I wondered what it would be like to own a dragon, as my ancestors did. I now know how they felt, awed by their wild, untamable beauty."  

A rush of heat spreads across Lyanna's neck and face, and she is glad that the darkness will hide her blush. "Are you comparing me to a dragon, your Grace?"

"Yes, I believe I am," Prince Rhaegar says.

She's both pleased and offended at once. "I'm a wolf, not a dragon," she corrects him. "You'd do well to remember that."

He caresses her face with the back of his hand, and once more she's surprised by how warm his skin feels. "You could be anything you wanted, even a dragon, if you so wished it." It sounds like an offer.

Lyanna doesn't know how to reply, so she steps back from his touch. "I like being a wolf just fine," she tells him, a tad piqued. "Now, first things first." She retrieves her sword from the its hiding place and turns to face him with a smirk, feeling her confidence return. She is better at wielding steel than she is at wielding words. "Let's find who's the better fighter."

"Let's," Rhaegar says, lips quirking. He looks amused, almost indulgent, as he unsheathes his own sword. "Tell me, my Lady," he says as he circles her slowly, "what will my prize be, if I win?"

Lyanna's grins widens, pivoting slowly so that she keeps facing him. "What would you like?" It's not like she has much to offer him.

"What about your name?" he asks. "I would very much enjoy it, if we could dispense with formalities between us, my Lady."

She thinks it over, not taking her eyes off of him. "Fair enough. You may call me Lyanna, then," she agrees.

"Ah, thank you … Lyanna." He stretches the name, as if savoring it.

"You haven't won yet," she reminds him.

"Your name and a kiss," he bargains. "Those are my terms."

Lyanna's heart skips a beat. A kiss. She thinks of Robert, of her father, of Lady Catelyn's warnings. "I accept."

"And what do you wish, if you win?" he asks, tilting his head.

Lyanna doesn't know what to ask for. She just wants to fight with him. Winning would be a reward by itself. "May I call you Rhaegar, then?" It is a brash thing to ask. He is the crown prince after all. Then again, she wouldn't be here if not for her boldness.

"You may call me Rhaegar now, if it pleases you," he offers, magnanimously.

"Rhaegar," she tries the word out, and likes how it rolls in her mouth, short and to the point, without titles getting in the way. Intimate. Not many people are allowed to call a prince by his given name. "I'd much rather win the privilege than have you just hand it out to me."

Rhaegar laughs. "You probably would. Is there nothing else you'd like from me?" he asks. "After all, I asked for two things."

Does she want something else? Not really. "The knowledge that I bested you," she finally admits. "That'll be satisfaction enough." Then, she attacks.

He manages to parry her move just in time, sidestepping with ease and counterattacking almost as quickly. The loud ringing clang of metal on metal soars through the night. She blocks his counter, jumps to the side and attacks again, but his sword is there once more. 

He's fast, faster than she expected. She's half-surprised and half-pleased. They move around each other, attacking, blocking and counterattacking. This is the kind of dance she excels at, not silly ballroom choreographies and curtseys. 

Rhaegar is stronger than she is, but she learned early on how to make an opponent's strength work for her. He fights well, yes, better than any man she has fought with before. His style is different, too, and it manages to surprise her again and again, his parries coming at angles she is not expecting, his strikes higher or lower than she is used to. It's hard to keep up, but Lyanna loves a challenge.

After her first attacks, she allows him to set the pace, concentrating on blocking his moves, letting him think that he has the upper hand. He is too overconfident, and the more Lyanna steps away and retreats, the more his confidence grows. He doesn't really think she can win. He is sparring with her as if it was game, one he's enjoying tremendously, but a game still. Lyanna knows it will cost him the fight in the end. She starts increasing her speed, jumping away and coming back at him from different angles, testing his responses.

Sweat pours down her back, and her hair clings to her forehead. She feels alive, aware of her body in ways only a fight can bring out, her sword an extension of her body, as alive as she is. Rhaegar, too, looks beautiful in the moonlight, his silver-white hair billowing out around his shoulders, his face closed-off in concentration.

As time passes without him landing a blow, Rhaegar starts to lose his patience. He becomes more aggressive, and his attacks trickier and meaner, more thought-through. Lyanna needs to finish the fight. In a test of endurance he will outlast her, and Rhaegar knows it. He's playing her, trying to tire her out, making her spin and parry and move, using his longer reach against her.

Lyanna has to bite back a laugh. Amateurish, really, as if that was not the first trick everyone used when they realized she was too fast for them. She feigns weariness, lets her counters become a tick slower, her parries just shy of too weak—not enough to let him land a serious blow or gain any advantage, but enough to feed his overconfidence. She sees it in his eyes, the moment when he thinks his strategy is starting to bear fruit. He redoubles his efforts, attacking more often, not really aiming to hurt her but forcing her to move more, trying to make her falter or lose her footing.

He works himself into a frenzy, as Lyanna makes him believe that he almost has her, that the next strike will be the one that ends the fight. He is drunk with anticipation, like a hound who's scented blood, so sure of his prey he forgets to watch his surroundings.

Lyanna leaves an opening in her guard, and Rhaegar takes it. She lets him come in and drops to her knees in the last moment, using Rhaegar's own momentum to propel him forward. It's a move she has practiced thousands of times, dirty and quick and so damn effective. Brandon might have seen it coming. Rhaegar does not stand a chance. Just as quickly she rises from her crouch and kicks him in the back of his right knee, ramming the butt of her sword into his unprotected nape.  

He falls down like a ton of bricks, rolling on the ground in a tangle of chainmail and cape. He loses hold of his sword and Lyanna kicks it further away before she goes to him. He's lying on his back, still dazed from the blow, breathing heavily and a bit irregularly. She aims the tip of her sword at his exposed neck, letting him feel the sharpness of the steel against the soft skin of his throat.

"Yield," she commands, flushed with the fight and the victory. She likes how he looks sprawled at her feet, helpless. At her mercy. His cocksure smile gone.

"For you, always," he says. It sounds like something Robert would say, but his words get to her in a way Robert's never do.

"I warned you not to underestimate me, Rhaegar." The name falls easily from her lips, not a hint of hesitation.

He chuckles, and then groans. Lyanna almost feels bad for him; she knows how mean that blow of hers is. She crouches next to him and places her hand on his forehead. "Are you dizzy?" She thinks of apologizing, but she's not really _that_ sorry. A win is a win. "If it's any comfort, I didn't think I could beat you otherwise."

"It's small solace," he says, and closes his eyes. "My pride hurts more than my head, I'm afraid. I did so want to kiss you, my Lady, almost as much as I wanted the honor of using your name."

He sounds dejected and yet so earnest, as if he truly means every word. Without really knowing why, Lyanna lowers her lips to his and places a chaste kiss on them. His eyelids fly open, and his hand comes to her head, holding her in place when she tries to pull away.

"You play dangerous games, my Lady," he rasps, his voice husky and deep. "It is not wise tease dragons."

"I'm not afraid of fire," she tells him, her face so close to his, that she feel the heat of his breath against her cheeks. "I'm not afraid of anything."

He yanks her closer, catching her by surprise, and rolls them around until he's on top of her, his arms bracketing her face. The long strands of his hair fall like a curtain around them and all she can see is his face, mere inches away from hers.

"Maybe you ought to be," he tells her. "Ice melts when it gets too close to fire."

"Depends on the season," Lyanna counters, a hint of defiance in her tone. "When winter comes, no fire is strong enough to stop it." Then, a bit smug, she adds, "And winter is coming." She presses her hand to his nape, right where the skin must still be tender from her blow, and kisses him.  

He is ready this time; his lips meets hers without hesitation. And maybe he is right, maybe she is playing too dangerous a game without knowing all the rules, for it feels as she is on fire, melting, burning, just as Rhaegar said she would.

Kissing Robert never felt like this. It has always been something she let happen and forced herself to endure, wet and clumsy and a bit messy in a slightly disgusting sort of way. She spent half the time wondering where to put her hands, how to move her lips or her tongue, trying to gauge when enough time had passed to safely break away without it being offensive.

Kissing Rhaegar is like being set alight from the inside. His lips are demanding, rough and hungry. Conqueror's lips, she thinks with a distant part of her mind, and then even such a small thought is beyond her. She can only react, arch into his kiss, open her lips to his tongue. She doesn't need to think about what to do with her hands or her mouth or her body, whether she's too close or too far from him. Thoughts are unimportant, meaningless things against the wave of desire flooding her. The only thing she can do is kiss back, and kiss back she does.

She loses herself in the taste of him as her tongue fights his for dominance, demanding entry into Rhaegar's mouth, wanting to explore him just as he does her.

She pulls Rhaegar's body closer to her own and rolls them around until she is on top of him once more. They break apart, both panting for breath. His lips are red and swollen, glistening with saliva in the pale moonlight.

"My Lady," he pants. "You drive me mad with need. I have never felt anything like it." He looks wrecked, that haughty Targaryen perfection shredded.

She did that. The knowledge sends a shiver of want through her. She lowers her head slowly and kisses him again. This time she knows what to expect, and she wants it.  

It is Rhaegar who forces them stop. "Not here," he says, pinning her hands against the ground, holding her still. "Not like this." At some point they rolled around again, even if Lyanna doesn't remember it.

She likes the weight of him on top of her, solid and unyielding, the way the hard muscles of his thigh press between her legs. She rubs against him and moans, wanting more of that delicious friction.

"Stop it!" he rasps out, his voice husky and deep. "Your first time should not be like this."

"Why not?" she asks. "Better here than in Robert's bed. Better you than him."

"Lyanna," he gasps her name, as if wounded. "My wild Visenya." He kisses her lips, her cheeks, her forehead; small, chaste kisses that seem even more desperate for their modesty. "You don't know what you are asking," he says. "Not like this. I want more for you. More for us."

Lyanna closes her eyes and lets her head fall to the ground. She feels strangely hollow. "There is no more to have," she says. "Just this. You and I, now, tonight, perhaps tomorrow. It might be wrong, but at least you would be my choice, not my father's. And when the time comes to become Robert's, I will know how it should have been like. It's more than I had before."

"It's less than you deserve." He sounds angry.  

Lyanna thinks of her childish dreams: staying in the North forever, becoming Brandon's Master-at-Arms, being free to wear breeches and carry swords. "We seldom get what we deserve, and never what we want," she says. The resignation in her voice surprises even her. She sounds defeated, hopeless. When has Lyanna Stark ever given up? When did she become a quitter?

"You can have more. I can give you more," Rhaegar promises.

Lyanna opens her eyes and looks at him. She caresses the side of his face, tucks a strand of hair behind an ear. "You can't."

"Yes, I can," he insists. "Marry me and I will give you everything you want."

Lyanna laughs bitterly. What would that change? She would still have to leave Winterfell, would still have to wear dresses and be somebody's wife. Yes, the kisses would be better and maybe the bed sport, but that's hardly what she _wants_. "You are already married," she reminds him.  

"I would not be the first Targaryen with two wives," he says.  

Lyanna does not care much for politics, but she has spent too much time in the training yard listening to men talk not to have learned a thing or two. "Your father does not trust the North. He does not trust any of his Lord Paramounts. He would not want you to marry me." Rumor has it the king was not even happy with Rhaegar's current marriage, but Lyanna knew better than to say that.

Rhaegar lets himself fall to her side and sighs. The two of them lie quietly next to each other, watching the stars in the night sky. After a while, Rhaegar says in a low voice, "My father will not be king forever."

Lyanna tenses next to him. Such words… one ought not to speak like that about the ruling king, even if the words are true. "But he is king now."

"You could wait," Rhaegar says.

Lyanna huffs mirthlessly. "I would like nothing more than to wait … wait until I'm old and grey … wait forever. My father is having none of it."

Rhaegar turns on his side, holding his head with one hand and tracing the line of her neck with the other. Their eyes meet. "Come with me to King's Landing. I can hide you until the time comes. We can marry in secret, we—"

"No!" she interrupts him. Then she stands up and wipes off the dust and grass blades from her clothes as best she can. "I have to go back. Dawn will be here soon, and it is a long walk back to the castle."

"Lyanna," Rhaegar pleads, but she interrupts him before he can continue.

"Enough. I will not be your second queen, Rhaegar."

She remembers Princess Elia and the dozens of ladies constantly surrounding her. The moments Lyanna has had to spend with Lady Catelyn and her friends are bad enough. Just the idea of being forced to do that day in and out for the rest of her life makes her nauseous. And the politics, the backstabbing, the pointless power games. No. Just no.

"I need to go back now. I'm sorry," she says. Then, acting on an impulse, she takes out a handkerchief and presses it into Rhaegar's hand. "Here, my favor. I want you to have it, as a memento."

Rhaegar caresses the handkerchief mesmerized, before he looks up at her, a curious look on her face. "Why would you give me your favor? I lost the fight," he adds, as if hesitant to remind her.

Lyanna rolls her eyes. "For that very reason. I want _you_ to win the tourney." Her grin is all teeth. "After all, if do you win, it would be as if I had won. I've bested you already."

"Ah … of course."

He stands up and goes to her. He holds her face with his hands and presses a soft kiss to her lips. "Then I will win the tourney for you, my Lady," he murmurs against her lips, "and crown you Queen of Love and Beauty."

Lyanna snorts, an unladylike sound that Old Nan always criticizes. "I will not be your queen, Rhaegar, not even in this. Win the tourney if you can, but give the crown to your wife. I have no use for it."

"I will not give you up," he says, and kisses her once more, deep and slow, as if to memorize the taste of her.

"You have to," she insists, resting her forehead on his, panting slightly.

"I will show you otherwise."

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

She barely has time to come through her window and hide her sword under the mattress before the door to her room swings open. She spins around, startled.

"Ned," she gasps when she recognizes the intruder in the faint light of the candlelight. "What are you doing here? Did something happen?" she asks, placing a hand over her chest in a useless attempt to make her heartbeat slow down.

Her brother is in his nightshirt, and his hair is a total mess. "Where were you?" he asks in a clipped voice, entering into the room and shutting the door.

Lyanna glances at the still open window and her empty bed. She is wearing breeches, and her nightgown lies untouched beneath her pillow. She wracks her mind searching for a plausible excuse and finds none. "I couldn't sleep," she tries—not a total lie. "So I went out for a walk."

"In the middle of the night? Through the window?" Ned voice drips disbelief.

She arches an eyebrow and lifts her chin, not intimidated by his tone. "Did you expect me to wake Brandon up and ask him for an escort?" she asks with fake sweetness.

"Don't lie to me, Lyanna," Ned snaps. "Where were you?"

"Out."

"Out where? With whom?"

"You're not my keeper, Ned. I don't owe you an explanation," she hisses at him.

"I'm your older brother, and you're engaged to my best friend," he tells her, his accent traveling farther North the angrier he gets. "I've a right to know what you've been up to."

"A right to know," she parrots, mockingly. "And what will you do with that knowledge, Ned? Share it with Robert like you shared with me the knowledge that he's siring bastards left and right in the Vale?"

"Who told you that?" And now he's the one caught off-guard.

"Are you denying it?" Lyanna presses her advantage.

"That has nothing to do with—"

"With me? His betrothed?" Lyanna doesn't allow him to finish. "Of course not."

"Is that what this is about?" he asks. "Are you trying to get back at him?"

She levels a flat glare at him. "Believe it or not, no matter how you and father would wish otherwise, my life does not revolve around Robert Baratheon. And as long as I'm not wearing his house colors or carrying his last name I intend to keep it that way."

"Lyanna," Ned chokes out, "he's your betrothed and my best friend."

"Then maybe you should marry him!"

He raises his hand as if to slap her, but in the last moment realizes what he's about to do and takes a step back, breathing heavily.

Lyanna steps forward, moving into his personal space. "Go ahead! Hit me! It won't make it any less true. I don't love him. I don't want to become his wife, and the only thing this marriage will bring me is misery. But it is not like anyone cares about that."

"You don't know what you're saying," Ned tries to reason with her. "He loves you. I know he does. Just give him a chance and he'll make you happy."

What do any of them know about her and what will make her happy?

"You want to know where I was tonight?" she asks, recklessness washing over her like a wave, sweeping all rational thought away. "I was with Prince Rhaegar," she whispers against Ned's ear. "And we kissed. It felt better than anything I have ever done with Robert." She pats Ned's cheek in a condescending manner, like she would a small child's. "But it's not as if I know what I'm saying. And Robert loves me so. I'm sure I'll _die_ of happiness once I'm his wife."

"The prince is using you," Ned tells her, catching her hand in an iron grip and moving it away from his face. "You're just too naive to see it. He's a married man. He doesn't care about you. He just wants to use you."

"You're probably right," she admits. "But you're forgetting something. Maybe I want to be used by him." She yanks her wrist away and steps back. She looks at him in defiance. "Now you know where I was and with whom. What are you going to do?"

Ned rubs his hands over his face, torn with indecision. "Did you sleep with him?"

"No, I didn't."

She feels unshackled, almost weightless, as if by telling Ned, she has unburdened all her fears and doubts onto him and kept none for herself.

"I believe you," Ned replies after a heavy silence, forcing the words to come out. He avoids her eyes, and despite his reassurance, it's obvious that he doubts her.

"I don't care if you believe me or not," she tells him, merciless. "I'm tired, and I want to go to bed. Do what you want. Tell whom you must. Keep the secret. Spread it across the Seven Kingdoms. It's not my problem."

"How can it not be your problem?" He doesn't raise his voice, but Lyanna knows he is furious. "This is your life we're talking about."

"No, it's not," Lyanna spits. "We're talking about the life you, Robert and father want for me. That's the only life we ever talk about."

She turns away from Ned and starts taking off her garments, ignoring him. After a moment, she hears the door open and close, and she's alone once more. She lies on her bed and stares at the shut door for a while, wondering what the next day will bring. She closes her eyes and exhales, pushing the thoughts aside, chasing after the feeling of utter certainty she had after she confessed the truth to Ned.

' _Tomorrow will come soon enough_ ,' she thinks. ' _No point worrying about it now._ '


	4. Chapter 4

None of her fears materialize. The next day Brandon greets her with the same indulgent smile he uses just for her. Robert sits next to her at the breakfast table and is so cloyingly solicitous that Lyanna has to bite back the desire to snarl at him. Benjen and Howland sit in a corner and whisper and laugh at something only the two of them know.

Ned is late to breakfast, and when he finally comes down, the black rings under his eyes make him seem years older. Lyanna catches his gaze across the table and arches an eyebrow at him in inquiry. He looks away and refuses to meet her eyes. He sits down in the far corner of the table and busies himself with his porridge, moving it left and right, without eating any of it. Robert goes to him and drops down into the chair next to Ned, clapping him on the back in a boisterous greeting.

"Well, well, well," he says, loud enough that everyone on the table can listen. "Looks like someone got lucky last night. That Dornish girl of yours put out?" His lewd laugh booms across the the table.

Lyanna doesn't think that Ned looks like he got lucky. He looks like someone who spent the night tossing and turning in bed, fighting with his thoughts—and losing.

Ned's eyes dart to her for a second, before he turns to Robert, whispering something in his ear. Lyanna tenses and waits, but Robert only laughs louder and ruffles Ned's hair. Ned's answering smile looks like a grimace, but Robert, self-centered as he is, doesn't seem to notice. Lyanna watches the two of them for a while, until it becomes clear that Ned will keep her secret. She breathes out and turns back to her own breakfast.

The great hall quiets and rises as the king enters, followed by his son. Rhaegar holds his wife's hand, and Lyanna takes the time to study her, curious about her in ways she was not before. Standing next to Rhaegar, Princess Elia seems unbearably frail, like a candle about to burn out. Would Lyanna fare any better if Rhaegar had his way? A cold shiver travels down Lyanna's back forcing her to look away.  

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

Rhaegar barely looks at her during the tourney. Not once does he stop his horse in front of her booth, and though he defeats knight after knight in the arena, every time he turns to his wife and bows to her. By the time the day is over, Lyanna is seething with rage even though she knows is silly. He is doing exactly what she asked, winning the tourney and giving his attentions to his wife.

The knowledge that she bested him ought to be enough to make her happy, but it is tainted with the taste of his mouth on her, the heat of his kisses, the memory of his hard body pressing her to the ground. She can't think about their sparring without remembering the aftermath, and it drives her mad. She wants him, she realizes, wants him to see her and touch her and crave her. She wants more nights like the last. Many more.

The rest of the day goes by in a daze. Lyanna is distracted and short-tempered, enough so that even Benjen avoids her, but she can't bring herself to care. She's barely able to pay attention to Lady Catelyn and her friends' chittering gossip while she counts the hours until dinner, yearning and dreading her dance with Rhaegar in equal amounts. 

She can't decide what to wear to the banquet. No dress seems adequate, and whenever she looks herself in the mirror all she sees are the places in which she is not tall enough, or curvy enough, or pretty enough. It only angers her more, realizing that when it comes down to it, she is not better than any of Lady Catelyn's insipid friends. 

And then, for all her trouble, that night Rhaegar does not even ask her to dance. He ignores her completely, lost in conversation with his wife, Prince Oberyn and assorted friends. Not once do his eyes travel to meet hers. It is as if he has completely forgotten her. 

Fine, Lyanna thinks, anger soaring with no outlet in sight. Fine.

She turns to Brandon and tells him, "Brother, you know what I would really, really like?"

Brandon's lips widen into a knowing grin. "Nothing good from the look in your eyes."

"A dance, a proper one. None of this boring Southern crap. A Northern dance," she tells him.

Brandon's eyes sparkle with mischief. Of all her brothers, Brandon is the only one who also feels the call of the wolf in his blood, even if his is not as strong as Lyanna's. "If word ever gets to Father, he will have my hide."

"But think of the look on everyone's starchy faces," Lyanna whispers to him. "Wouldn't it be worth it?"

Brandon laughs, wicked and mean. "I'll talk to the musicians." He stands up comes back a while later, a grin on his face. "It cost me a pretty penny, but your wish is my command, sister mine," he murmurs as he sits next to her. 

When the next piece of music comes it is not what Lyanna is expecting, more a soft, low cadence that gets under the skin and stays there. "That's not Northern music," she complaints.

Brandon laughs. "Patience, little sister. I'm just covering our tracks. The musicians will play a song from each of the seven kingdoms, in honor of the guests of the tourney. That way no one will be able to tell we were behind it. They started with Dorne, but they will end with the North, and what a memorable end it will be."

"Dorne," Lyanna repeats, and her eyes dart to the head of the table, where Prince Elia and her friends are looking at the musicians with pleased surprise.

' _All right_ ,' Lyanna thinks, her eyes fixed on Rhaegar. Her lips tingle with the ghosts of kisses that refuse to be forgotten. He seems to be managing all right, the way he's been ignoring her all day. Not for long, though. ' _I can wait._ '

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

When the last chords of the lute die away and with them the song of the Vale, Brandon stands up and offers his hand to Lyanna. She takes it with a smile, and the two of them walk to the middle of the ballroom. Everyone's eyes are on them.

The music starts, deceptively slow, like the first snowflakes of winter, soft and insignificant, melting away to nothing the moment they touch the ground, but it soon quickens. The lute and timbrel gain speed and the drums follow, the rhythm becoming faster and faster and the music louder, until the room almost vibrates with the sound.

Lyanna can feel the thrum in her blood, like a second heartbeat that resonates through her body. She _is_ the music. It chases away her worries as she pours her anger and doubts into the dance, feeling them fade to nothing. She sways her hips to the fast rhythm of the drums, her feet barely touching the ground as she spins and jumps, following Brandon's lead, clinging to his body one second and undulating away the next, a promise and a tease, like a flame in a campfire, warm and beautiful, but too dangerous to touch.

When the music finally dies, she stays still, chest heaving up and down with exertion, her spine arched back almost to the breaking point. Her legs, hooked behind Brandon's hips and Brandon's arms around her lower back are the only things supporting her weight. He grins at her, out of breath and flushed. It is as if the two of them are alone, back in Winterfell, where no one else ever mattered.

"Brilliant!" Robert's shout breaks the spell, and she is yanked back to reality. The silence is broken, and everyone starts clapping and cheering. Brandon rights her with a fancy swirl the two of them have practiced countless times and bows to her. He spins her around once more and she curtseys to the crowd. 

Lyanna's gaze seeks the high table, where Rhaegar sits. He is staring at her. His hands cling to the arms of his seat like claws and his face is twisted in a grimace. If he was ignoring her before, now he can't seem to tear his eyes away, and Lyanna knows with a sudden, absolute certainty that he wants her like he's never wanted another woman. She smirks at him, barely a quiver at the corner of her lips, but enough to let him know that she knows. His body tenses, and for a moment Lyanna thinks he's going to stand up, walk to her and kiss her in front of everyone, but Ser Arthur's hand goes to his shoulder and keeps him still. Rhaegar closes his eyes, swallows and leans back into his chair slowly, as if in pain.

Lyanna's smirks widens and she turns away, letting Brandon lead her back to their place at the table. She can feel Rhaegar's gaze on her back, burning like fire.

"You were fantastic!" Robert says, pulling her close to him. "I've never seen anyone dance like that." In her ear he whispers, low enough that nobody but her can hear, "You drive me wild with desire. I can't wait to marry you." Then he kisses her.

Lyanna, all too aware of Rhaegar's eyes on her, kisses Robert back. And for a moment, with her eyes shut and her awareness of Rhaegar as sharp as a knife driven into her heart, she can almost pretend that it is not Robert she's kissing.  

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

"What were the two of you thinking?" Ned hisses, when they are back in their rooms. His face is blotchy red with fury and a thick vein throbs visibly on his neck. He turns to Lyanna and his face seems to become even redder. "You are engaged to Robert!" he reminds her, as if she can possibly have forgotten it. "Do you think dancing like that in front of the whole court is something he approves of?"

"Huh, I don't know," Lyanna says, as if considering the question. "He did seem rather approving, the way he kissed me after the dance was done. I could even feel some parts of him approving more than others."

Brandon laughs out loud and Ned splutters, so furious that he's at a loss for words. "Don't encourage her!" he rounds on Brandon. "What will father think? He put you in charge for a reason, Brandon. You're supposed to take care of Lyanna, not let her run wild."

"Ned, relax, and don't be such a bore. Fostering in the Eyrie has turned you so dull." Brandon rolls his eyes and claps Ned on the back. "It was just a dance."

"A dance! A dance? By the old gods, you both know that's not the kind of _dancing_ you do at court," Ned snarls at Brandon.

"It's a traditional Northern dance," Lyanna puts in, grinning sweetly at Ned. "And like all Northern dances is meant to heat the blood and drive away the ice of winter. The dance is as old as the North and nothing to be ashamed of, brother."

Brandon chuckles. "And you can say what you want, Ned, but the way Lyanna and I danced it, even the blood of an eunuch would boil. We did the North proud. I think even some of those celibate White Knights are going to find sleeping a bit, let's say _hard_ , tonight."

Lyanna chuckles at Brandon's crude innuendo.

"I've had it with the two of you," Ned hisses. "Can you think before you act for once in your life? They will think us savages! No proper lady—"

"Who cares what proper ladies do or don't?" Lyanna snaps.

"Robert—" Ned starts.

"—does not care," Lyanna interrupts, "and even if he did, what's he going to do? Break the engagement? Oh, no, what a terrible fate." Lyanna's voice drips with sarcasm. Then, before Ned has time come back with a reply, she turns around and stomps to her room.

She slams the door with a loud bang and plops down on her bed. She buries her face into her pillow to muffle the sounds and laughs and laughs until she can barely breathe.


	5. Chapter 5

That night she tosses and turns in bed, reliving the last days of the tourney. It's too hot to sleep, but when she pushes the bedsheets away, she misses their comforting weight on top of her and ends up pulling them up again, only to push them away a couple of minutes later. 

By the time the bells strike midnight, she has given up hope of ever falling asleep. Lyanna pushes the sweaty bedsheets aside one final time and burrows into her pillow with frustration until thirst overrides her desire to lie in bed and forces her to stand up. The air in the room is stale and her nightgown clings to her body, drenched through with sweat. She opens the windows and fresh air rushes in, cooling her overheated skin. She leans her head outside and breathes in.

The full moon shines bright in the sky, which explains some of her restlessness. She's never been able to sleep soundly on full moon nights. Going back to bed seems a useless endeavor. She splashes water on her face and goes in search of her breeches. It's too beautiful a night to spend it cooped up inside waiting for the clock's bells to strike.

The guards are easy to fool. The castle is much too big for them. One would need a thousand men to cover every corner of Harrenhal. It's a security nightmare. Winterfell might have only one third of the area, but at least it was well protected.

She climbs down an abandoned wall without being noticed, using the charred, broken stones as handholds until she reaches the bottom. She strolls aimlessly, letting her feet take her where they will. Still, she's not too surprised when she notices that she's heading towards the clearing where she and Rhaegar fought … and kissed, a treacherous voice reminds her.

She comes to a sudden stop when she notices a horse grazing near the trees. She squints, trying to see better, and approaches warily, ready to bolt if the need arises. Lyanna relaxes when she recognizes Rhaegar's horse, its gold plated stirrups—an outrageous waste of money only a Targaryen would indulge in—easy to discern in the bright moonlight. Rhaegar is sitting on the ground, his back resting against the wide trunk of an oak.

Lyanna stops, unsure what to do. Her stomach flutters with indecision, and she can feel her heart pounding like a trapped bird against her ribs. She should turn back and ignore him—like he ignored her throughout the day—but a sudden wave of anger has her stomping towards him instead. She's not going to run away from him like some scared rabbit.

"Lady Lyanna," he gasps when he sees her coming, and stands up.

She stops a couple of feet away from him and glares. "So you do remember me after all, Rhaegar." She draws out his name, bare of titles and honorifics, a reminder that she had defeated him the night before. "I was starting to wonder. Unless yours is the kind of memory that only surfaces when it's dark outside and nobody is there to witness it."

Rhaegar's lips quirk, and for a moment it seems as if he's almost pleased by her reaction, but the expression is gone so fast that Lyanna is not sure if she imagined it.

"I—" he starts and then stops. He breathes in slowly and exhales, before taking a step towards her. He raises a hand to touch her face, but Lyanna moves out of his reach. His hand falls, and he seems at a loss for words. "I'm sorry," he says at last.

Lyanna snorts, unimpressed. As apologies goes, she's heard better.

"I didn't dare to look at you," he explains. "If I had, I knew I wouldn't have been able to stop myself from going to you and kissing you in front of everyone, consequences be damned. Believe me, please," he beseeches.

She blushes and looks away, unable to disentangle the myriad of emotions coursing through her. "I want to," she whispers.

He places a hand under her chin, urging her to raise her chin until their eyes meet. Lyanna licks her lips nervously, and his eyes zeroed on the movement. He leans closer as if in a trance. Their lips touch, barely a brush; the ghost of a kiss, tentative and soft. He lets go almost immediately and steps back, hands hovering uncertain at his sides.

"Forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive." She doesn't know if she's talking about the kiss or the day events. Maybe both.

She touches her lips with the tips of her fingers and feels as if the world is tilting around her. She thinks of Robert, of the endless years ahead of her at Storm's End; thinks of Ned and his warning: ' _He's using you._ '

Thinks, ' _I'm using him, too._ '

She closes the distance between them. She is so close that she needs to look up to see his face. Rhaegar's chest rises and falls in rhythm with his ragged breath and his pupils widen. He stays still like a statue as she tucks a strand of long hair behind an ear, tracing the shape of his cheekbones with her fingers. His nostrils flare and he swallows, but his body remains otherwise motionless, spellbound by her touch.

In the moonlight he seems like a creature not of this world. She wants to claim him, wreck that aloof perfection. She wants the ghost of this night to follow him, wants him to close his eyes and feel her, to look at every woman and see only her.

She rests her forehead against his chest and breathes in and out, slowly, unsure if she's trying to fight the desire or just giving in to it. In the distance she hears a wolf howling to the moon; the eerie sound sends a shiver down her back. She raises her head and meets Rhaegar's gaze.

"Show me," she tells him. "Show me what you wanted to do."

"Lyanna, please." His hands go to her face, and his whole body vibrates with coiled tension—a man at the edge of an abyss, too afraid to move.

"Show me, Rhaegar," she demands. "Consequences be damned."

And he does.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

"I love you, Lyanna." The intensity in his voice scares her. "Come with me to King's Landing, become my wife. I will put the colors of my house on you and show everyone that you are mine. I want to the whole world to know what you mean to me. I want them to know that you are _mine_."

Love? The word takes her by surprise. How can he know? How can he sound so sure? She freezes, unsure how to react. Is she supposed to say the words back?

She likes Rhaegar, a hundred times more than she likes Robert. Their time together has been … fun, pleasant even. She likes sparring with him, and the kisses and caresses, even lying with him. She had enjoyed how it felt when he moved inside her. It had hurt some, but not as much as rumor had her believing. She's had more painful wounds training with her brothers. All in all, it had been all right. She wouldn't mind doing it again, if he asked. But was that _love_? Is that what love feels like? Old Nan always told her that she would know when she was in love. She doesn't feel as if she _knows_ , though. Does that mean that she is not in love then?

"Our fathers would never approve," she says at last, for lack of something better. It's true, and it seems less cruel than sharing her doubts with him.

He brackets her face with his hands and forces her to look at him. "Come with me anyway. I'll hide you until I can make you my queen. You and I, Lyanna, we're meant for each other. Ours will be the children of prophecy—children born of ice and fire. I know it." He sounds almost feverish, and though he's looking at her, his eyes are miles away. For a moment, she can see the resemblance between him and his father, the Mad King. It scares her.

She kisses him to shut him up. She would much rather lose herself in his kisses than dreaming about things not meant to be.  

"You're incredible," he whispers, voice husky and drunk with desire. "I've never met a woman like you." He looks at her as if she's a revelation, the answer to prayers he's long since stopped believing would ever be answered.

Lyanna, for her part, does her best not to think. She does not want to talk. She wants to _feel_. She knows what to expect now, and that makes her bolder. She kisses Rhaegar,  fighting him for control, demanding more, taking what she wants when he's not fast enough to suit her. 

Soon, he is hard again. He moans her name over and over, as though it is the only word he can remember. Lyanna spreads her legs and arches up against him. An invitation. She rakes her fingernails across his back as he thrusts in, heady with the pleasure mounting and crashing over her in waves.

It's nothing like the first time. It didn't feel like this then, and Lyanna doesn't know if she wants it to stop or to go on forever. It's too much, and yet not enough. She pants and groans, the sounds coming out of her without control. She turns them around, until she's the one on top, free to move, to _take_. She feels wild with need.

Beneath her, Rhaegar seems as lost as she feels, as helpless. "Lyanna," he whispers, like a curse or a prayer, and pulls her to him, kissing her, biting her neck, staking his claim on her.

Lyanna kisses back just as feral.

His hands go to her hips, and he urges her on, forcing himself deeper into her, rolling his hips up as though he wants to disappear inside of her. Pleasure slams into her like an avalanche, swallowing her whole as her body explodes with bliss, unable to contain that much sensation inside. It feels almost like dying.

She collapses on top of Rhaegar and wonders dimly, while she gasps for breath sprawled over his chest, if this is love after all. She certainly wants more of it. As soon as she is able to move.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

Angry voices wake Lyanna from a deep sleep.

"What is the meaning of this?" Someone is saying as Lyanna stirs and blinks. Above her the sky is barely starting to clear with the first rays of sunlight. Lyanna shakes her head, still stupid with sleep, and tries to remember where she is.

"I can explain," Rhaegar answers.

The sound of his voice brings the memories rushing back. All traces of sleepiness disappear as adrenaline shoots through her body. She freezes, paralyzed with fear. Rhaegar's cloak lays heavy around her shoulders, covering her naked body from the three kingsguards surrounding them. She feels small and vulnerable, and even though a part of her tells her to snap out of it, the towering figures with their white cloaks and angry faces scare her.

"I would like to hear that explanation," Prince Lewyn snarls, face twisted into a scowl. It seems as though he wants to say even more but manages to stop himself. Lyanna remembers with mounting dread that he is Princess Elia's uncle. 

She glances around, looking for her clothes, and finds them discarded all around the clearing. There's no denying what happened. What had she been thinking? Brandon and Ned are going to kill her. And Robert—Robert is going to …

… break the engagement, she realizes abruptly. In love or not, as Lord of House Baratheon with a scandal like this surrounding his betrothed that's the only thing he will be able to do.

And just like that, the fear that was keeping hold of her melts away like snow at the first sight of spring.

"What's there to explain?" Lyanna says, and stands up, pulling Rhaegar's cloak around her protectively. 

Prince Lewyn, Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur all turn to her in surprise. She raises her head with a confidence she does not actually feel and meets their eyes. Never let the enemy smell your fear. "I think what went on is obvious enough." 

She picks up her discarded clothes, pretending to ignore their ogling, and dresses quickly, twisting awkwardly this way and that in a useless attempt to keep the cloak from slipping. She turns around once she's done and saunters back to them. She stares down the kingsguards, daring them to say anything. The heavy silence stretches uncomfortably and Lyanna lets it.

Ser Barristan is the first to cave. He shakes his head with a disbelieving snort and turns his attention back to Rhaegar. "Your absence last night was noted," he informs. "The king could not sleep and ordered for you to be brought to his chambers. When we couldn't find you, he raised the alarm. Search parties were arranged and dispatched throughout the castle, and he commanded that all lords be questioned."

"What for?" Rhaegar asks, surprised.

"He seemed convinced that one of them had kidnapped you and intended to challenge his rule." It's Ser Arthur who continues. His eyes dart to Lyanna. "With the commotion those orders caused, someone ought to have noticed by now that Lady Lyanna is missing as well. I don't believe we can keep this hidden."

Rhaegar rubs his face with his hands and exhales, dismayed. He looks wrecked, drowning in guilt and desperation.

With a resolve she doesn't feel, Lyanna picks up his discarded cloak and hands it back to him. "Put this on. We need to go back now before everything worsens."

Rhaegar takes the cloak and stares at her dumbly.

"Put it on," Lyanna repeats, her tone clipped. "We need to go."

He takes hold of her hand and presses her fingers between his own. "You don't understand what will happen."

But Lyanna understands perfectly, maybe better than he does. "Of course I do. My brothers will shout at me. Robert will break the engagement, and no man in the Seven Kingdoms will want to marry me once the news spreads. I'll be dragged back to Winterfell, and once father finds out he will never allow me to leave the castle again."

"I promise you that—"

"Not now. Later," she cuts Rhaegar off. "We need to head back."

She knows there won't be a later, though. Princes don't marry soiled women. Strangely enough, Lyanna finds that she doesn't mind. She will spend the rest of her life in Winterfell, free to do as she pleases, without the threat of marriage looming over her. She can't imagine a better life.

The kingsguards regard her with something akin to pity, even Prince Lewyn. More fool them. She doesn't need anyone's pity.


	6. Chapter 6

Rhaegar orders Ser Barristan to escort her back to her rooms, ignoring Lyanna's wishes to face the king and the court together with him.

Ned is waiting for her, pale-faced and somber. His face crumbles when he sees her, his pain and disappointment so obvious they could almost be corporeal. He looks older than his years. Worn out. Sad.

Ser Barristan tries to explain, but Ned cuts him off. "Don't. I can imagine what happened well enough. I'll inform Brandon and Robert; they are with the king." He walks away without a second glance at her.

Ser Barristan bows briefly to her and follows Ned outside.

Lyanna's heart is heavy in her chest. She knows that Ned will never forgive her for this. Not with Robert, whom he loves like a brother, smack right in the middle of it.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out, trying to let go of the tension in her body. What's done is done, she tells herself. There's not going back, just forward. She changes her clothes, unwilling to face the king dressed like a stable boy. It's all for naught, the guards watching the entrance of her rooms refuse to let her leave—Ned's orders.

As time passes, the uncertainty starts to wear on her. What is happening? Why aren't they back yet? The more time she has to think things over, the more worried she gets. Surely everyone knows what happened by now. The way gossip travels in court, anything else would be impossible. Brandon will try to defend her honor for all the good it will do. Thoughtless, fierce Brandon. Hopefully Ned will manage to calm him down before he does something too brash.

She paces, listening to the bells strike hour after hour.

Finally, she hears steps on the hallway. The door bangs open, the wood rattling against the stone wall. Brandon stomps inside, red-faced and angry, slamming the door shut behind himself.

"What happened?" Lyanna asks.

"Is it true?" he demands. He's so close to her that specks of spit land on her face as he shouts, "Is it true what Ned says? Did you give yourself willingly to that dragon-spawn?"

Lyanna wipes her face and meets his eyes in defiance. "What if I did? What business is it of yours?"

Brandon slaps her. Once. It sends her head reeling back, and she falls on the floor. The force of the blow so strong she's almost dizzy with it. The pain registers like an afterthought. It's the violence itself, coming from Brandon _of all people_ , that startles her the most.

And then, just as suddenly, a wave of rage washes over her swallowing the fear and worry of the last hours. She stands up, blind with fury and hurls the nearest chair at Brandon. He ducks in the last moment, and the chair crashes against the stone wall, breaking into pieces.

"Are you out of your mind?" Brandon shouts, but Lyanna is far from done and Brandon has never scared her. She flings herself at him, and the two of them fall to the floor in a knot of limbs.

Brandon tries to grab her wrists, but she's having none of it. She kicks and bites and twists, using every dirty trick she's ever known. It takes Ned and four other men to finally tear the two of them apart. Lyanna struggles against the hands holding her, still mad beyond words. How _dare_ he strike her? Who does he think she is?

"Enough!"

Brandon and Lyanna both freeze. She looks about in alarm, expecting to see her father. It takes her a moment to register that the tight, commanding voice is Ned's.

"What is wrong with you?" Ned hisses the words out. "Is this what you consider a talk?" He scowls at Brandon.

"Don't patronize me, Ned." Brandon shakes off the grip of the two guards holding him and tugs his clothes into place. He's cheek is bleeding from four long scratches and his left eye is starting to swell. "If you know so much better, you deal with her. I'd much rather forget I have a sister." His lips curl in disgust as he glances in Lyanna's direction.

"May the Others take you, and good riddance!" she shouts after him as he strides out of the room.

Ned exhales and rubs his face with his hands. "Let her go," he orders the guards still holding her and gesture for them to leave.

Lyanna straightens her clothes and tests the movement of her jaw, grimacing with pain. She can taste blood in her mouth. Brandon had never been one to pull his punches.

Ned watches her for a while. The silence stretches and grows, taking on a life of its own. Ned can't seem to find the right words to say to her, and Lyanna is not inclined to make it easier for him. She pretends to study her ruined dress, uselessly trying to bring together the torn pieces, and waits.

"I warned you this would happen, but you were too stubborn to listen," Ned finally says, after what feels like a small eternity. 

Lyanna breathes out, gathering her wits. "Who knows?"

"Everyone," Ned tells her. "It's not the kind of rumor that stays quiet for long. Not the way the two of you handled it." His lips tighten into a thin line and his brows furrow into a hard grimace eerily similar to their father's at his angriest. "You've dragged the Stark name through the mud, Lyanna. You've turned our house into the laughing stock of Harrenhal, and soon the Seven Kingdoms. This is not one of your games, Lya. This is the kind of thing nobody can fix."

It's Lyanna's turn to stay quiet, unable to form words. Ned looks so miserable, so broken. She never intended to hurt _him_. She'd just wanted…. "What about Robert?"

"At first he wanted to believe the prince had forced himself on you, but—"

"That's not what happened!" Lyanna protests. 

"The kingsguards made that clear." Ned stops and crosses his arms defensively before continuing, "I, too, told them the truth. I had to. I remained quiet before and look what it brought me." He pauses again. "Robert broke off the engagement," he adds in a hushed, empty voice. 

' _At least something good came out of it,_ ' Lyanna thinks. "Does he blame you?"

"I blame myself!" Ned shouts. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, before looking at Lyanna again, more in control. "I could have put a stop to it yesterday, but I chose to trust you. I was wrong," he adds, subdued.

"Don't," Lyanna counters briskly. "I didn't promise you anything. Nor did I ask you to trust me."

"No, you did not," Ned tells her. "And yet I did it anyway. More the fool me." 

"Did Rhaegar…," she starts and then trails off, unable to finish the question.

Ned's lips flatten into an unhappy line and he avoids her gaze as he admits in a strained voice, "He won't marry you." He looks at her at last, his face marred with lines of pain and regret that make him look older. "I'm sorry."

Lyanna's shoulders slump and her heart twists in her chest. She had known it would be like that. She had. And yet a part of her feels abandoned and hurt. Silly. 

"Well, at least you can say you told me so." Lyanna's voice breaks midway. 

"It will not change anything." He turns around and walks to the door. "We're leaving today as soon as the tourney is over."

"We're staying that long?" Lyanna asks, surprised.

Ned stops, hand on the doorknob. "Brandon's next match is with Prince Rhaegar," he explains, without turning to face her. "He still believes he can avenge your honor."

"I don't need anyone to _avenge_ my honor," Lyanna snarls. "Brandon least of all." 

"Oh, I know that," Ned says drily. "I suppose Brandon will learn better. Don't you dare leave this room without permission, Lyanna."

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

She walks into the stands with her head held high. Silence falls like a cloak when people notice her. She ignores everyone, pretending nothing is amiss. She doesn't care about what people think, she tells herself over and over, but it feels like a lie. The way everyone looks at her, pointing and whispering, even giggling at times, makes her uncomfortable. Ashamed.

She's angry at herself for letting them get to her like that. She is Lyanna Stark. She's the Mad-Bitch of the North. Why does she care what useless Southerners think of her? And yet a part of her does. Denying it doesn't make it any less true.

She takes her place in the stands, sitting between Ned and Benjen. Benjen glances at her and blushes deep red, before he averts his eyes. It breaks something within her. Ned's scorn and disapproval she can deal with, even Brandon's pointless fury, but Benjen's reluctance to even acknowledge her hits her like a punch in the gut.

She bites the inside of her lips and forces herself to breathe in and out slowly. She blinks and raises her head in an almost unnatural angle, fighting back the tears welling at her eyes. She concentrates on her body, taking stock, commanding her shoulders to loosen and forcing the fingers of her hand to unclench. She pastes a hollow smile on her face and looks over everyone's heads at a faraway point.

The sounds of the trumpets heralding the beginning of the jousting draw people's attention away from her. Two pages walk across the lists, holding the banners of House Targaryen and House Stark, announcing the first match of the day.

Once more, silence falls upon the crowd, but it's a different kind of silence, filled with tension. The kingsguards hover near Rhaegar, swords drawn, shields ready. On the other side of the lists, her father's bannermen swarm around Brandon like flies over rotten meat in summer.  

' _Don't do anything stupid,_ ' Lyanna wants to say, and doesn't know if she's thinking of Brandon or Rhaegar.

The two of them mount their horses and the crowd cheers, bloodthirsty. Brandon ignores them. His whole focus is on Rhaegar. His lance is pointed straight at the prince, and his horse, poised and ready, paws restlessly at the ground. Rhaegar pays him no heed. He has yet to acknowledge Brandon; he is looking at her instead, and even with his helm closed, Lyanna can feel his gaze boring into her.

The trumpets sound once more, warning the riders to ready themselves. Rhaegar barely reacts. His squire tugs at the reigns of his horse, catching his attention at last. Rhaegar turns to him and takes the gleaming red lance the squire is holding. His horse rears up as Rhaegar hefts the lance, adjusting his hold.

The crowd cheers.

On the other side of the track, Brandon hasn't stopped looking at Rhaegar once. He's coiled with tension. Something in the way he holds himself frightens Lyanna. She tugs at Ned's sleeve. "Brandon wants to kill him," she whispers, almost paralyzed by the sudden flash of insight.  

Ned yanks his arm away and glares at her. Once more, Lyanna is struck by how much he resembles their father. "A bit too late to worry about it now, isn't it?"

"If he succeeds…," she trails off, unable to go on, as possible outcomes each more horrible than the last unfold before her mind's eye. "It would mean war."

"It would mean _death_. For all of us. Not that Brandon listened to me. None of you ever do." Ned's voice is bitter. "If the gods are willing, your prince will win. Brandon will not strike again if he's defeated. He will accept the will of the gods."

Lyanna hopes he's right. She tries to remember when the last time she went to a godswood to pray was and can't. She's never been as devoted as father or Ned. She closes her eyes, trying to picture the heart tree of Winterfell, the deep lines that make out the long, melancholy face carved into its bark. For a moment, it is as if she is there: she can hear the breeze playing against the leaves, smell the faint traces of winter in the air, see the imposing white bark and the blood-red leaves of the weirwood. ' _Please_ ,' she prays silently to the old gods. Desperately. ' _Please let the match end without death. Don't let Brandon win._ '

It feels wrong, asking the old gods, the gods of the North, for her brother's defeat. She can't shake the fear that the gods will not listen. When do they ever? Why would they? Of all her siblings, surely she's the one that deserves it the least. She opens her eyes and glances at Ned's serious face and hope fills her. Surely the old gods will listen to _him_ —kind, dutiful Ned, who prays every day and always does what their father bids. If someone deserves to have the gods listen, it is Ned.

The trumpet sounds a final time, short and shrill, and Lyanna's attention snaps back to the field. Rhaegar and Brandon's horses gallop towards each other at a furious pace. The light catches on Brandon's white lance as he raises it higher, aiming straight at Rhaegar's helm. Lyanna holds her breath as the two horses approach. Time seems to slow down. 

Rhaegar leans forward in the last instant, and Brandon's lance misses him. Brandon isn't so lucky. Rhaegar strikes him full force, lance shattering against Brandon's shield. Her brother sways dangerously, but manages to remain seated. Rhaegar wheels his horse around, and his squire hurries forward, bringing him a new lance. Brandon, too, turns his horse and waits for the herald to give the signal to charge again.

Lyanna claws at her dress. Her legs twitch with anxiety as she waits, praying for it to be over soon, for it to end _well_.

"House Stark! House Stark!" Benjen chants and raises to his feet. Their bannermen follow and House Tully joins in. The ruckus is enough to almost quell the cries of those cheering for House Targaryen. Lyanna swallows, throat dry, and glances fearfully at the king and his men.

The trumpet sounds and Brandon and Rhaegar charge again. Lyanna leans forward, clutching the railing so hard that the wood creaks under her hands. This time, both lances hit true. The impact of metal and shattered wood eclipse the shouts of the crowd. Brandon topples over and takes down his horse with him, the two roll on the ground with a loud metallic clatter. Lyanna jumps to her feet, heart hammering with fear as she tries to see if Brandon is all right.

Rhaegar manages to stay on his saddle. He reins in his horse and dismounts, drawing out his sword. Brandon is pinned under the weight of his horse, he tries to scramble up to continue the combat, but can't break free. Lyanna wants to jump into the field and stand guard by her brother's side.

Ned clasps her arms and pulls her away from the rail. "Sit down," he hisses. "You're making a spectacle."

She glances around, notices that although most people's attentions are on the lists, some are looking at her, too. She flushes with shame and subsides. When she looks back to the field, Rhaegar has stopped advancing. He signals the squires to come to Brandon's help and waits until they free him from underneath his horse and take the limping beast away. Brandon stands up on unsteady feet. He sways but manages to stay upright as he draws his sword and turns to face Rhaegar.

Lyanna breathes out a sigh of relief, some of the tension draining from her frame.  

"It's not over yet," Ned cautions her.

"Yes, it is." She has fought both of them, and in the state he's currently in, Brandon is no match for Rhaegar. He can't barely hold himself upright. "Rhaegar will make short work of him."

"How can you say that?" Benjen snarls at her, face flushed with anger. "He's our brother. He's fighting for _you_. Do you want him to lose?"

"Of course not." The words come out too quickly and Lyanna knows that Benjen can sense the lie in them.

His face contorts with scorn. "You're disgusting! You betrayed our house for a man who shamed you, and now you want him to win?" He stands up and moves to the other side of the bench, as far away from her as he can. Around her people start to whisper once more, pointing and sneering.

Lyanna slumps back on her seat, feeling as if the strings holding her together have been cut. When the tears come this time, she lets them.

"You brought this on yourself," Ned says, matter-of-fact.

Lyanna wipes her face and ignores him, pretending to watch the combat. It doesn't last long. Just as she predicted, Rhaegar manages to disarm Brandon within minutes, sending his sword flying across the ground. Brandon yields. He stands up and stomps away without a second glance at Rhaegar. A squire runs after him, picking up the pieces of armor Brandon is furiously discarding as he goes.

She's scared that Brandon will come up to the benches. The last thing she needs is another quarrel with her brother. However, Brandon stays away.

The rest of the tourney happens in a blur. Lyanna is too lost in her own thoughts to pay much heed to it. She's faintly aware that Rhaegar is winning, felling opponent after opponent. He fights like a man possessed—as if he has something to prove. Maybe he does. After all, he needs to get back into his wife's good graces. He will fight his way to victory, crown Princess Elia Queen of Love and Beauty, and all will be forgiven.

Lyanna's eyes dart to the princess and her ladies in waiting, surrounding her like a protective cloud of lace and silk. Princess Elia looks gaunt and drained. Lyanna pities her. Let her keep the crown and Rhaegar. It seems like a small price to pay now that Lyanna knows she won't have to marry Robert and end up like her, haggard and hollow-cheeked, a shadow of the woman she was meant to be, forever shackled to a man she can't love.

A small price for freedom.

She barely notices when the tourney ends. Ser Barristan yields to Rhaegar, and the cheers multiply tenfold, snapping Lyanna out of her reverie. By contrast, the silence among her father's bannermen is almost oppressing. For a wild moment, Lyanna plays with the idea of joining in on the applause, wondering what they might do. It's Benjen's small figure, huddled miserably beneath his cloak at the far end of the bench that holds her back.

She sighs, suddenly exhausted, the lack of sleep catching up with her. She longs for Winterfell, for the peace of the North, where things are clear and easy, where she knows her place.

In the distance, Rhaegar takes off his helm, and the long locks of his silver-white hair spill down his shoulders. She remembers how they felt brushing over her breasts and the wave of heat the memory brings catches her by surprise. She blinks and swallows, snaps back to the present. Rhaegar lifts the crown of blue flowers Lord Whent hands over to him, proclaiming him the winner. He canters on his horse across the field, holding the crown of flowers high for everyone to see.

Then, to Lyanna's utter bafflement, he trots past his wife's booth not even stopping to look at her, and continues until he is right in front of Lyanna.

Everyone hushes, the silence so deep one could hear a pin drop. Ned tenses next to her, and from a corner of her eye Lyanna sees Benjen and the guards twitch nervously, hands hovering over the hilts of their swords.

She stays still, not knowing what to expect or how to react.

_What is he doing?_

It is as if she's watching the events unfold from outside. Rhaegar bows his head to her and kisses the crown of blue roses with reverence before placing it on Lyanna's lap.

"Lady Lyanna." His deep, harmonious voice carries across the field, and in the absolute silence everyone must be able to hear him. "I crown you my Queen of Love and Beauty."

His lilac eyes burn into her as he repeats, "My queen." On his lips, it sounds like a promise.

Lyanna's numb fingers close softly around the flower crown. She peers at it as if in a trance. Blue winter roses, her favorites. How did he know? She glances up at him, oblivious to the onlookers, and brings the crown to her lips. She kisses the flowers, too.

Then, she raises her chin with a cocky smile and places the crown on her head.

Consequences be damned.


	7. Chapter 7

Ned drags Lyanna out of the stands before anyone has time to react, the bannermen following close behind. Brandon is waiting by the wagons with the rest of their party. His face contorts into a menacing grimace the moment he sees Lyanna. He rips the crown of flowers from her head and tramples on it. 

"You're a disgrace to the Stark name!" he snarls, and janks Lyanna's arm away from Ned's grip. He hauls her to one of the carriages and shoves her inside, ignoring her struggles. "I don't want to hear another word from you until we are back home," he hisses, and slams the door shut.

And true to Brandon's words, no one talks to her during the long journey back to Winterfell. Not Brandon, nor Ned, nor Benjen. Not even the guards. 

Days turn into weeks, and weeks into a moon-turn. The first sightings of snow begin to appear on the road. And in all that time, no one speaks to her. Even the maids at the inns hurry in and out of her room with their heads lowered. They avoid her eyes and her questions, as though talking to her were a crime; Brandon's doing, no doubt. Ned wouldn't be that consistently cruel.

Lyanna feels like a criminal marching to her execution. She's not even allowed to ride a horse, confined to a carriage whose doors open only from the outside. Grim-faced, silent guards shadow her every move, making sure she only goes from the carriage to her room and back again. She is trapped, and every passing day adds to her sense of doom.  

It starts to wear her out. There are times when she finds herself crying silently for no reason at all, unsure if it's anger or sadness or just sheer frustration. Maybe all three. A pervasive fatigue weighs on her like an illness, robbing her of strength. With nothing else to do, it's hard to fight off her dejection. Sleep seems easier, and Lyanna gives in to it, allowing it to steal the hours away.

Her dreams are restless, plagued with disjointed images of the past that make no sense in the light of the day. She dozes on and off, thinking of Rhaegar and Harrenhal, of Robert and might-have-beens, wishing things had turned out differently.

Surely marrying Robert would have been the lesser evil? If she had at least had the sense to be more discreet. Her thoughts wander to her father, waiting for her in Winterfell. Brandon would have sent a raven ahead, and if not him, others would have told him by now. What will he do to her? Will he forgive her?

Lyanna wants to imagine that he will, but she fears he might not. If even Benjen can't find it in his heart to forgive her, then their father is a lost cause. Lord Rickard will not suffer her by his side, not after what she did. Her stomach churns with anxiety at the thought. At least with Robert she could have visited every now and then, but if she is exiled she will never be allowed to set foot in Winterfell again. It terrifies her.

Where could he send her? Who would want her now?

Maybe the Silent Sisters. Is that to be her punishment? Is that the reason why Brandon has forbidden everyone from talking to her?

Why would something as insignificant as her maidenhead matter so much? She does not feel any different. She is the same person. The same Lyanna. Robert had slept with other women before and everyone had known it and expected her to overlook it. Why couldn't it be the same with her just because he was a woman?

It was unfair. Just like learning to fight—something that women didn't do. Except this was no child's whimsy. This time her father wouldn't relent, nor would he forgive. It was an absolute certainty that left no room for doubt or hope. Lyanna knew it like she knew winter was coming, down to the marrow of her bones. If there was one thing Lord Rickard valued more than riches, or love, or even his own life, it was honor.

_'You're a disgrace to the Stark name.'_ Brandon's words hurt more than his slap ever did.

Honor. The Stark name. The Starks' honor.

Lyanna can't stop thinking about it. She sleeps and wakes up, eats and dozes on and off, watching the hours and miles pass by lost in her thoughts. Rinse and repeat. But as time passes, and the days get colder, and the shadow of Winterfell looms ever closer, Lyanna's energy returns and with it her spark.

Guilt turns into anger.

What is the Stark's honor worth, if something as fragile as a maidenhead could threaten it so? What do her father and Brandon know about honor anyway? Or Ned?

Is that all honor is about? Giving up her dreams, marrying a man she doesn't love, resigning herself to an unwanted future without a fight?  

No.

If that is honor, she is glad to be rid of it. If Brandon and her father think that isolating her will make her regret her choice, they are thoroughly mistaken. Anger has only ever made Lyanna fiercer.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

When they finally arrive at Winterfell, the inner yard of the castle remains remarkably subdued. The servants come and go carrying off their luggage, the stable boys hurry to tend to the exhausted horses, and men bustle about taking care of wagons and supplies, but the usual buoyancy surrounding long awaited arrivals is missing.

The guards open the door of her carriage, and she steps outside, breathes the cold air in and braces herself for what lies ahead. Winterfell seems smaller somehow, more ragged, reality no match for the memories nostalgia painted in her heart. She never catches any of the servants staring at her, but the intensity of their disapproving glances pierces her back. She doesn't feel welcome.

Brandon and Ned march her directly to their father's solar, not even allowing her to relieve herself. Lord Rickard is waiting for them, sitting behind his desk with a somber expression. He, too, seems older and frailer. Lyanna has missed him. She wants to run to him and hug him, hide her face in her father's shoulder and pretend all it's all right.  

"Hello, father," she says. After so long without talking, the words come out rusty. She clears her throat and adds, "I hope you are doing well."

Her father's nostrils twitch and his lips tighten into an angry line. "I cannot talk to you right now," he says in a low, harsh tone. "Go to your room and stay there," he orders, grim-faced.

"Father, let me explain," Lyanna tries, taking a step forward.

Her father slams his hands on the desk so hard that the inkwell topples over, spilling ink over the wood. His face turns red with anger and the veins in his throat bulge as he shouts, "Be quiet! I don't want to hear your paltry excuses! You have no idea what you have wrought!" He takes a calming breath. "I have heard enough of you to last me for a lifetime." The low, chilly tone is absolute.

"So, is that what it will be then? The Silent Sisters?" she asks in a small voice.

"Maybe that would be a fitting punishment, but sending my daughter to serve the new gods will not cleanse our name from the shame you have brought upon it. No, I will marry you off to whoever is willing to have you, and be done with it. A third son or even a bastard; I don't care. The sooner you stop carrying the Stark name and sullying it with your mere existence, the better." He closes his eyes and when he opens them again, his face is cold and empty like the stone statues down in the crypts. "Take her to her room," he tells Ned.

Lyanna offers no resistance, trailing after Ned as if in a trance, too shocked to do anything but follow.

Ned pushes her softly into the room and guides her to the bed. He studies her with a frown and asks, "Are you alright?" 

Lyanna laughs, a brittle sound that is just shy of a sob. "Since when do you care?" She feels like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Lifeless. Lost. Without purpose.

"Don't," Ned says. "You brought this upon yourself. I warned you. Don't blame me if you don't like the consequences. Life isn't a game, Lyanna."

"And you would know how? You were born a man," she spats. "You could do anything and no one could strip the Stark name from you. I'm disposable. I was _born_ disposable. Something to barter away for power or favors. And now … not even that."

Ned sighs. "That's not true. Father wanted you to be happy."

"And now he wants nothing to do with me." Lyanna chortles. "Well, at least I know what I'm worth to him. To you all. A maidenhead." She dares Ned to deny it, but he doesn't. He just shakes his head and leaves.

Lyanna closes her eyes and lets her head fall between her hands. Tears of helplessness well up in her eyes. _Marry her off. To anyone. Anyone at all._ Her stomach churns.

_'The sooner you stop carrying the Stark name….'_ A sudden wave of nausea has her running to the chamber pot. She throws up what little she managed to eat that morning and waits on shaky knees until the dry-heaves stop. She wipes her mouth with her sleeve and searches around the room for some water to rinse with.

She spits the foul-tasting water out and rinses again. Her father's words keep echoing in her ear over and over. _'The sooner you stop carrying the Stark name….'_

She hurls the cup against the far wall with such force that its wood cracks and the cup breaks in two pieces, falling to the floor with a loud clang. Her hand reaches for the jug of water next. The familiar feeling of mindless rage engulfs her, and she starts smashing and throwing everything she can find, kicking her possessions and screaming. 

Despite the racket no one comes to check on her. She doesn't know how much time passes before she finally stops, exhausted. Her room is a wreck, as if a storm has torn through it. She pauses, mid-motion, a half-crumpled nightgown still in her hand, and takes in the mess. She drops onto her bed face down and sobs, kicking and punching at the destroyed bedding until the last remains of anger bleed out and she falls into a heavy sleep.

She dreams of winter and snow, of frozen landscapes and hunger. She walks through a forest of weirwoods, following the caws of a raven. Wolves howl as Winterfell burns. Above, in the sky, dragons circle over the charred remains of what once was her home.

The rattling of the door startles her awake. Lyanna sits up with a start, heart beating madly. It takes her moment to remember where she is. The realization that the fire was just a nightmare is heady and sweet like summer wine.

A maid opens the door and comes in with a tray of food. She's new. Father's foresight at play, forestalling any attempts Lyanna might have made to cajole information out of her childhood friends. The girl gasps when she sees the destroyed room. She looks around with wide eyes but doesn't comment, scurrying away immediately after delivering Lyanna's dinner.

Lyanna falls back on the bed and exhales, letting the last remnants of her nightmare go. If dreams are sent by the gods, like Old Nan claims, this one is not particularly hard to decipher. After what happened between her and Rhaegar, Winterfell is lost to her. She has no home; her father has made it more than clear.

Her future is not here.

She knows with sudden clarity what she needs to do. The future unfolds before her mind's eye and the solution seems so easy. So obvious. Like a sudden opening in an opponent's defense. A  weakness to be taken advantage of and exploited. 

Lyanna clenches her teeth and nods to her self, determined. If her father wants her gone, by the gods, she will disappear and they will never find her again. She will give them exactly what they want. If they don't think her worthy of the Stark name, then she will get rid of it, but it will be on her terms.

There are two types of Starks, Old Nan always told her: those with the wolf blood and those without. It has been like that since Bael the Bard seduced Brandon Stark's daughter and put the seed of wildness into the Stark blood. Lyanna's wolf blood has always been strong. Sometimes, when she dreams she can sense the wolves running free in the woods as if she were one of them. She knows now what it means.

Lyanna stands up, bright and awake, all traces of tiredness gone. She strides to the window and opens it. Crisp, cold wind brushes against her face, carrying a whiff of hay and horse manure. Dusk is giving way to night. The sky is clear and the moon so thin that it seems like a white feather floating among the stars. Light spills out of the windows of the main hall. She can even hear the faint echoes of loud laughter and music. Father is celebrating the arrival of his sons after all. It's only her nobody is glad to see.

It's the perfect night. If she wants to leave, this is her moment.

She has never been one for second-guessing herself, and she's not about to start. Quickly, she gulps down the porridge the maid brought and leaves the bread, apples and dried meat to take with her. She rummages through the wreck of her room, trying to locate things she might need for her journey. She finds her thickest woolen winter cloak and spreads it on the bed.  

She discards her dress and puts on men's clothes, the kind she uses for riding and sword practice, plain and sturdy, but comfortable and warm. They feel like a second skin in a way dresses never have.  

She's glad her father never thought to take away her weapons. Her room is filled with them. Even her sword is there, still hidden in the bottom of the trunk the servants carried in with the rest of the luggage. She selects her best knives, two small climbing axes and one bow she never got around to bringing back to the armory before their journey to Harrenhal. She'll have to craft her own arrows, but that's easy enough.

Choosing among her possessions is hard, like picking pieces of herself, aware she will lose the rest. Ballast she won't need in her journey. Freeing in a way. And yet, leaving so much of her old life behind hammers home the knowledge that this is her farewell.

Lyanna looks around one final time, breathing in the comforting smell of home. Grief fills her, and she has to blink away tears at the idea of never again returning to Winterfell, but strangely enough, a part of her is also looking forward for what is to come: the unknown adventures and dangers ahead of her.

Her stomach flutters with excitement and fear, both, the way it does when facing an opponent on the field she knows might be better than her. Other people might shy away and retreat, but Lyanna has always loved the thrill of it, the challenge, the knowledge that one wrong step, one tiny mishap might be all it takes to fail and the overlapping bone-deep confidence that she will succeed.   

She pulls the edges of the spread cloak around the supplies and ties them into a makeshift sack, using the thick neck tie-strings to secure the opening. She then piles some of her discarded clothes on the bed, giving them a rough human shape, and covers them with the duvet. It ought to give her a couple more hours head start, provided she doesn't get caught on the way out. Finally, she puts on her sturdy, everyday cloak, wraps it tight around her neck and binds the bottom into a rough knot around her waist. It looks terrible, but it leaves her legs and arms free to move without getting tangled up.

Climbing out her window is as easy as she remembers it. Her hands know where the cracks and braces in the old stones are. It's not the first time she has gone out at night without permission. The trick is to go up, not down. The patrols only guard the perimeter of the wall, focusing on the doors, the accesses to the castle and the courtyards, but they mostly ignore the roofs. Lyanna sticks to the shadows, balancing on narrow ledges, and leaps from roof to roof until she reaches the First Keep.

She checks for patrols before she climbs down, as close to the crypts as possible. The heavy, ironwood door at the entrance groans and its old hinges creak as she opens it. Lyanna cringes and holds still, terrified that somebody will come check on the noise, but nobody does. She slips into the crypts and shuts the door with a sigh of relief.

Absolute darkness swallows her. Cautiously, she gropes her way down the narrow, winding spiral stairs, sliding one foot tentatively forward until she can locate the edge of the steps. It's a slow, nerve-wracking process. The darkness plays havoc with her sense of time, and the only reason she doesn't get lost is that there is only one way to go: down.

After a small eternity, the stairs give way onto the first level, then the second and finally the third. Lyanna steps in, groping along the wall for a torch. She's starting to despair when her fingers finally happen upon the iron sconce. She pulls the torch down and holds it between her knees, fumbling in her pockets for flint and steel.

The flickering fire illuminates the long line of granite pillars that lay ahead as far as the light reaches. Dust covers everything and thick layers of spiderweb engulf the statutes of her ancestors, shielding their faces like a veil. Nobody ever wanders this deep into the crypts. Her grandparents and the last generations of Starks are buried in the upper level. Only Lyanna ever comes this far down, though nobody knows about it.

As she walks by, the white, imposing statues of the first Starks look down on her with their blind, stony eyes. Before, she thought that the statues looked majestic and proud, but now they seem heartless and cold. Judging. 

Once, she had thought she would be buried in the crypt, alongside her family. She even dreamt of a statue of her own, the first Stark woman to earn one. She knows better now. She would have never been allowed to remain a Stark.

She stops before the statue of Bran the Builder, the founder of House Stark, and her chest twists with pain. "This is farewell, then," she says, gloomily. The words echo softly, and it sounds as if the dead are saying farewell, too. 

The corridor of the crypt narrows and twists the farther ahead she gets. The granite pillars end and little by little the last traces of man's touch fade to nothing, and the crypt becomes once more what it originally was before the first men came, a never-ending complex of caves, carved out into the depths of the earth by the same hot springs that warm the halls of Winterfell.  

Once, as a child, playing hide-the-treasure, Lyanna went into the deepest, farthest parts of the crypt, until the path became so narrow that she was forced to crawl. She had been determined to make it to the very end. Except that the end never quite came. After a long while, the path started to widen again, turning into a new cavern that lead outside, far into the wolfswood at the north of Winterfell. She was thrilled by her discovery, certain that _nobody_ , nor father, nor Old Nan, nor even the castle Master, knew about it. Lyanna guarded the knowledge jealously, for once unwilling to share it even with her brothers. It was _her_ secret passage. Hers alone. A door to adventures without fear of reprimand. Now, she is glad she never told.

By the time she makes it out of the caves, the night is in full bloom. Winterfell is just a small set of faint, golden lights in the distance. The air is crisp and cold, but dry, the perfect weather for a long journey. Lyanna re-ties the sack with supplies to her back, rights her cloak, and after one last look towards Winterfell turns resolutely away.

She seeks out the stars of the Ice Dragon. In the dark, almost moonless night, its blue eye shines brighter than ever. Lyanna walks towards it. North is where her destiny lies.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

She avoids the Kingsroad, knowing it is the first place they will look for her. Morning at the latest someone will notice her absence—noon if she is lucky and the new maid takes the fake bundle on her bed at face value. She doubts the dogs will be able to trace her at first. Nobody will think of the roofs, and even if they do, the dogs can't go there. That will give her a good day head start, maybe two. Nonetheless, sooner or later one of them is bound to get lucky and catch her fading scent in the woods. After that, all bets are off. She needs to put as much distance between herself and Winterfell as she can before it happens.

After so long caged inside a carriage it feels wonderful to move again under an open sky. She is out of shape, though. Six weeks of forced inaction, just sitting and sleeping, have taken its toll. Her legs tire faster than she expects and the sack of supplies on her back becomes impossibly heavy. Still, fear of capture pushes her forward long after she would have otherwise given up.

It's midday by the time her feet refuse to take another step, and she allows herself a small rest. Despite the spring weather, there are some patches of stubborn snow that have refused to melt, and Lyanna eats some of it to quench her thirst. It melts quickly in her mouth, cooling her overheated, exhausted body. She eats some of the dried meat and bread, portioning her meagre food reserves carefully. Stopping to hunt and cook would slow her down too much. She chews slowly and idly wonders if someone has raised the alarm by now, or if they have yet to figure out she's gone.  

After a couple of minutes, she forces her protesting legs to continue, aware that it will only get worse if she allows her muscles to cool down. The forest becomes thicker, and it takes longer to make progress. On top of that, hunger and exhaustion start to wear down on her. By late afternoon, she admits to herself that she needs to stop and find a place to rest for the night. Truly rest. The little breaks she has taken here and there won't be enough to keep her going for another full day. 

The gods must be watching over her, for not soon after she starts seeking a good spot, the faint trickle of water catches her attention. She follows the sound to a small stream, coming down from the hills to join one of the White Knife's tributaries. Its water tastes like ambrosia, fresh and cold and perfect. Lyanna follows the stream up until dusk starts to settle. The sight of a lone weirwood, rising majestic in the distant brings her to a stop. The blood-red leaves are set off by the dark green crowns of the oaks and sentinel trees surrounding it. Its trunk is broader than Winterfell's heart tree and its roots spread wide and deep, reaching almost all the way across the stream.

Lyanna approaches the tree reverently, walking slowly between its roots and circling its massive bone-white trunk with awe. Surprised, she notices that it has not been carved. She caresses the rough wood softly, marveling that nobody has ever bothered to open its eyes and mouth to the world. Sleeping gods, Old Nan calls weirwoods without faces.

She rests her forehead against the trunk and closes her eyes, breathing in the clean sweet tang of the tree. As she looks up into the wide deep-red crown something in her settles. Relief rushes through her exhausted body in waves as she finally sits down, allowing her legs to rest. Her feet ache terribly, and when she finally manages to pry off her boots, they are swollen and blistered. She drags herself around, not bothering to stand up, until she can dip them in the stream. When the icy water touches her heated flesh she hisses and cringes, but after the initial shock, it feels heavenly.

She's so tired that she's no longer hungry, but she still forces down the rest of the dried meat and the apple, leaving the last piece of bread for the next day. Lyanna fights off sleep, worrying about the journey ahead. She can't keep up the pace of today and with every passing second her father's men get closer.  

The howls of wolves wake her up, and Lyanna starts, realizing that it's already pitch black. She fell asleep from one moment to the next without meaning to. Another howl pierces the night, reminding her that there's a reason why the forest is called the wolfswood. It's too dark now to find a safer place to spend the night. She uses one of the lower branches of the weirwood to pull herself up and slowly climbs up, until she reaches a bough wide enough to support her weight comfortably. She tucks her legs in and wraps her arms around them, fitting herself into a small nook created by the tree trunk and two other protruding branches. At first, fear of falling has her startling awake whenever she starts to doze, but after a while exhaustion wins over her wariness and sleep claims her.

The chirping and tweeting of birds coax her awake. She's a bit groggy at first, and it takes her a moment to remember where she is. She curses loudly, realizing that she has wasted precious hours of sunlight and hurries down the tree. Her supplies are untouched, lying between the roots. The last piece of bread has hardened into a stone, and Lyanna dips it in the stream to make it softer. She chews on it slowly, trying to make it last. From this moment onward she will have to scavenge her own food.

After finishing, she is even hungrier than before. Her empty stomach growls and she feels slightly queasy. On an impulse, she takes out her knife and slowly carves a hole into the bark of the weirwood. Red sap starts to ooze, and Lyanna gathers it with her fingers and licks at it, remembering old stories about the First Men drinking from weirwood's trees before marching into battle against the Others. The sap tastes bitter and she screws her face into a grimace, but strangely enough it settles her stomach. She licks some more, and the taste changes, losing its bitter edge, becoming almost sweet.

When the sap stops running, she carves a second hole, and continues drinking it until her belly is full. The queasiness disappears, leaving her full of energy. Even the ache in her feet fades. With the two holes, the weirwood almost resembles a heart tree, and Lyanna feels compelled to finish it. She slashes a wide, horizontal line beneath the holes, trying to imitate a mouth as best she can. More sap leaks out as if the tree was slobbering blood.  

Lyanna places her hand on the trunk and closes her eyes. "Please don't let my father's men find me," she prays. "Guide my way. Protect me." She kisses the bleeding red mouth, puts on her boots, gathers her supplies and continues her journey.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

Despite her misgivings, she makes good pace. Sunlight streams through the crowns of the trees and warms the air. Birds sing and fly by without a care. New flowers and bushes sprout around, brightening the forest with fresh color. The ground is soft and moist beneath her feet, and the leather of her boots darkens slightly with the moisture. The air smells of spring. Of new beginnings. Of freedom.

Lyanna basks in it. This! This is the life she wants for herself. It hardens her resolve never to go back. She finds mushrooms and berries along the way and stops to eat, stuffing the pockets of her cloak with more for later. Her mind wanders back to Winterfell. It's been two days. By now they must be close to finding her trail, if they hadn't already found it. The thought dampens some of her good mood.

Her Lord Father is a stubborn man. Even if he wanted to get rid of Lyanna, he would never agree to lose her like this. He wants her in a place where he can still lord over her life, married to some man of his choosing for what little political advantage her soiled body might still bring him. He would not let her wander free through Westeros any more than he would allow an expensive purebred mare to escape his stables. He will comb the North until he finds her.

The idea comes to her unbidden, brilliant in its simplicity. If she wants her father to stop searching, she needs to give him something to find.

She spends the rest of her walk hatching her plan. When she stops to rest that evening, she goes through her possessions until she finds the only dress she brought along. It's a simple cotton-dress. Its light blue color matches the hue of winter roses perfectly. Brandon had given it to her as a present for her last name day, and Lyanna, who had never been one for dresses had fallen in love with it the moment she put it on. She doesn't even know why she brought it—useless sentimentality—but she hadn't been able to leave it behind.

The cloth is soft and smooth, and Lyanna knows she will never own anything this beautiful again. It was meant to be a memento, a memory of her family. Of Winterfell. She pulls her knife out and shreds the dress, trying to make the tears look rough and uneven, like the work of an animal. She cries as she works, wretched and miserable without even knowing why. She had thought she'd already come to terms with her decision, but she can't control the wave of sadness that washes over her as she tears apart one more piece of her old life.

After she's done, she sets the remains of the dress aside, wipes her face and stands up, shaking feeling back into her stiff legs. She walks around, finding good places to set snares, and after putting up five, climbs the branches of a tall sentinel tree and goes to sleep. The gods seem to be with her for luck is on her side. The next morning one of the biggest hares she's ever seen is caught in one of her traps. It twitches weakly, bloodied foam leaking from its mouth. The noose has dug deeply into the flesh of its neck, and the fur around it is coated with blood. When it sees her, it makes another feeble attempt to stand up and run, but its legs refuse to hold it.

Lyanna ends its suffering with a quick slash of her knife, catching the blood that spills from its neck with the shreds of her tore dress. The hare lies still, its empty, glassy eyes wide open. Lyanna skins it with ease and uses the rests of the dress to soak up the blood. She removes the snares, being careful to erase her tracks, and runs back to the stream at full speed, stumbling once or twice. One time, she even lets herself fall, before she stands up and continues her mad dash, not bothering to avoid tree branches or bushes on her way.  She's panting by the time she reaches the stream, lungs hurting with exertion. She wheezes as she props her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

A quick glance back shows an array of broken twigs and unearthed stones, turned over as she stumbled on them. The earth is visibly trampled and her footprints deep and impossible to miss. A good tracker would see that she was running from something, too scared to think, especially given that she had been so careful to leave almost no tracks before.

She throws the bloodied, torn-off pieces of the tattered dress to the ground, and taking hold of her thick braid chops it off near her nape. Dark locks of hair fall around her face. Her head feels incredibly light, and Lyanna shakes it, amazed, enjoying the odd sensation. She eyes the thick, dark braid in her hand and weighs it with awe. It doesn't feel _that_ heavy. She moves her head again, trying to get acquainted with its lightness and grins broadly.

Lyanna tugs at the ribbon holding the edge of the braid and loosens the plait, tossing a handful of locks over the bloodied clothes. When she is finished, she lets herself fall on top of it all and starts kicking and dragging herself around until she reaches the water, making it as real as possible, as if she was fighting off an attack. She places the skinned body of the hare at the center, hoping that the smell will attract wolves or some other large predators. If the gods are willing, their tracks will be big enough to complete her little charade.

It isn't perfect, but it will have to do. She just needs to give her father's men an easy excuse to stop the search, something to take back to Winterfell with them, if they ever make it this far.

Proof of death.  

Mindful not to leave unwanted tracks, she gathers her remaining supplies, ties the makeshift sack to her back and skips into the stream. The icy water reaches up to the middle of her calves and Lyanna wades swiftly through it, helping her body to keep warm.

The sun has not yet reached its zenith, and its rays brush sensuously against the skin of her face, caressing it. She looks up into the clear blue sky and and grins. "Lyanna Stark is dead! Long live Lyanna!" she shouts, and laughs.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

The next days are hard. Something in the food she manages to scavenge doesn't agree with her. She wakes up nauseous and tired and just thinking of the miles and miles ahead of her makes her want to cry. Or turn around and go back to sleep. Let her father's men find her if they will.

Her ruse seems to have worked, for even though her pace slows down, and more often than not she has to stop mid-day to nap—she is that tired—nobody seems to be following her. As days pass, the unease that has shadowed her since she left Winterfell starts to ease, and she slacks even more, giving in to the demands of her exhausted body. She takes the time to set traps and fashion arrows, supplementing her diet of herbs, mushrooms and fruits with fresh meat and the occasional fish, hoping it will settle her stomach, but nothing seems to help.

The sky turns a murky dark grey that hides the sun and promises heavy rain and the temperature drops. Spring weather, unsteady and unpredictable at the best of times. Lyanna finds shelter among the branches of two pairs of entwined weirwoods just as the first drops of water start to fall. Lightning bolts dance among dark clouds and thunder rumbles close by, rattling the air. Rain pours down, thick and violent, blanketing the forest in grey. It's impossible to remain dry, even protected by the deep mantle of red leaves surrounding her. Lyanna draws the hood of her cloak tighter and curls into herself, waiting for it to stop. Her eyelids grow heavy and the steady pattering of the rain lulls her to sleep.

Her dreams are troubled. She sees her father in Winterfell's godswood, kneeling before the heart tree, cheeks wet with tears, praying to the old gods: "Bring my daughter back home safe." The words tear at Lyanna's heart like claws and she wants to go to her father and hug him, but the dream changes.  

She's once more standing in front of the charred remains of Winterfell, watching the castle burn while dragons fly in the sky. Hatred and grief war inside her. "Kill them all," she orders, and her voice is older and harsh. Unforgiving. The dragons dive, their mouth wide open and fire gushes out.

She's holding a burning torch. Its flickering fire lurches and dances in the darkness as she runs. Fear, bordering on terror seizes her, erasing all thoughts but one: She needs to find him. She needs to find him now. Lyanna has never known such dread; it pulses through her veins like a living creature. "Mom," a child calls from the darkness, happy and carefree. A rush of relief washes over her, so deep, that her knees threaten to give up. _Love_ , she realizes, this is what love feels like. Old Nan was right, she would recognize love when she felt it. No doubts. No hesitation. Absolute certainty. A dark-haired boy runs towards her. Lyanna lets the torch fall and hugs him to her chest, almost crushing him. "Look, look what I found," the child demands, squirming against her hold. Lyanna forces herself to let go. In his small hands he holds a huge oval stone, breathtakingly beautiful. Lyanna touches the shimmering jewels, crusted in colorful patterns over the surface, and gasps. They are scales.  

"A dragon egg," she whispers, and wakes up.

Lyanna's hands fly to her flat belly and she presses the palms softly against it. "Oh," she breathes out. "Oh, gods." Her heart stumbles. "A dragon egg," she repeats, the dream's meaning becoming clear. She rakes her mind, trying to recall when she had her last moonblood. Much too long ago, she realizes. On her way to Harrenhal. Almost two moon-turns ago.

It's not possible, she thinks, but knows it for the desperate denial it is. The nausea, the exhaustion. _The missing moonblood._ It all becomes clear. For a frantic, terrified moment she thinks about turning back. Her plan was for herself. It never included a child. Rhaegar would surely help her, if her father turns her down. She breathes in and out, clutching at the wet branches of the weirwood, and asks the gods for guidance.

She laughs bitterly. The gods have already spoken. The dream is still vivid in her mind. Her father would accept her, might even be glad to know she is alive. But Winterfell would never be her home again. Lyanna might be welcome, her bastard child would not. And Rhaegar, her dragon prince, would be happy to have his mistress back. Lyanna's child would grow alongside his true heirs, despised and feared. The history of Westeros is written with the blood of Targaryens' bastards. _'Kill them all.'_ Her own voice, harsh, merciless. If she goes back, she will learn to hate them both: Rhaegar and Winterfell. 

The gods have spoken. There is only one choice to make.

Forward.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

The journey is strenuous and long, but Lyanna does not falter. She does not want her child to be marked a bastard the moment it is born. Now, more than ever, she needs to leave the Seven Kingdoms. There is only one place in Westeros where last names matter not: North of the Wall.

The days turn colder the further north she travels, but game is still easy to find. The bittersweet sap of the weirwoods calms her stomach and fills her with energy. It becomes her main source of nourishment, and more often than not, there are days where the blood-red liquid is all the food she manages to keep down.

It's not all bad, though. Lyanna learns to love the forest and its noises, the smell of fresh air and freedom. Even the solitude. It's easy to get lost in her thoughts. She cries sometimes. For the family she will never see again. For Rhaegar, who will never meet his child. For things that were never meant to be. But with every step, the pain becomes less, easier to bear.

She leaves Highpoint behind and reaches the Northern Mountains. She breathes out; her father's bannermen are few and far in the hills. It's only the mountain clans she needs to worry about, and though all know her name, none would recognize her face. Still, she starts traveling at night, following the eye of the Ice Dragon, doing her best to avoid mountain dwellers. She takes to sleeping in the tops of the trees during the day, protected by their mantle of leaves.

She still dreams of Winterfell. Still sees her father crying in the godswood. Once, she sees Brandon, grim-faced and tight-lipped, placing the Stark cloak over the shoulders of a beaming Catelyn Tully. More often, though, she dreams she is a wolf. Those are the dreams she likes best.

The terrain gets rougher as rains turns into sleet. Lyanna puts on every piece of cloth she owns, layer after layer, keeping the biting cold at bay. The icy winds cut her face and her feet sink into the freshly fallen snow. Walking at night becomes impossible and she stops even trying. If there are men about, she never encounters them, the mountains too vast and the North too sparsely populated.

Strangely enough, it is in the harsh cold of the mountains, freezing and hungry after days without finding any game, that she realizes she holds no regrets. If she had the choice to do it all over again, she would not change a thing. She would rather die of hunger, walking through the northern mountains alone, than live for decades at Robert's side, dying one day at a time.

It is as if by walking away from Winterfell and her former life, she is walking towards herself. Every step strips her of pretenses and masks, leaving only the core. Determined. Fierce. Wild.

Lyanna might not know what life holds in store for her and her growing child, but she does know what it doesn't. Whatever her destiny, becoming Lyanna Baratheon was and would never be it.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

The moons come and go, and it seems to Lyanna as if all she's ever done is walk through the mountains. Most days Winterfell and her former life seem like a faraway dream. Other times, though, she wakes up and expects to still be there, the memories sharp and bright, close enough to touch.

Then, she finally sees it. First a thin line that gleams in the horizon, more a trick of the light than reality. It grows and takes form the closer she gets, until it rises in front of her. A fortress of ice, overwhelming in its cold magnificence: the Wall.

Lyanna looks up at the massive structure with awe. It is bigger than anything she had ever imagined or seen. Even Harrenhal with its gigantic towers and overly large hallways seems small in comparison. 

The baby kicks her, as if it too is amazed by the sheer size of the Wall and wants to Lyanna to know. She grins and caresses her slowly growing belly, enticing it to kick again. "Yes, little one," she whispers. "You're right. It's beautiful."

She checks for guards or patrols nearby but sees nothing, only ice and snow stretching across the land as far as the eye can reach. And across it all, the Wall. 

Her fingers touch the ice of the Wall reverently. For an instant, it seems as if it is talking to her in a language she can't quite understand. It should scare her, but Lyanna is not afraid. She made it this far; she will not falter now. 

A Stark built the Wall; a Stark can beat it. 

She feels exposed, all too aware that the guards of the Night Watch could easily spot her, a dark figure in a sea of pure white. Despite her apprehension she stays within touching distance of the Wall. In her experience, guards seldom lean over parapets to look directly down. It's the woods and plains of snow between the forest and the Wall they will be keeping an eye on.

If her luck holds, and Lyanna prays to the old gods that it does, no guards will come. She has heard enough of her father's rants about the dwindling numbers of men willing to joint the Watch to know that odds are in her favor. Most of the castles are no longer manned, long ago abandoned and wasting away. 

A raven croaks, startling her. Lyanna looks up and can barely see it, a black point perched on the top of the Wall hundreds of feet away. It croaks again, louder than before, before it flies away. Lyanna hesitates for a moment before giving in to her impulse to follow it. She spots it a couple of times more when it alights on the ground and picks at the snow as if waiting for her, only to lurch into the grey sky as she draws near. 

At noon, Lyanna comes to a sudden stop. In the distance, a small tower raises from the top of the Wall, interrupting its daunting evenness. Lyanna's heart beats with dread as she tries to decide what to do. Turn around or go forward? 

Then, she sees the ravens. Dozens and dozens of them, perching at the top of the tower without a care. It cannot be manned, she decides, not with that many birds loitering around. Slowly, she starts moving again, keeping her eyes and ears open for any sign of men, but she finds none. 

As she comes closer she realizes that the watch tower is old and unkept. It's just a small structure, probably built to give men a place to rest and warm up before continuing their patrols. In the good old days her father mourns after, it was probably manned with a guard or two. These days, when they are not enough men to tend the proper castles, it has been long abandoned. 

Lyanna doesn't find an entrance. The tower might be at the top, but at the bottom the Wall is no different. No entries. No doors. Nothing. Just a cliff of ice that could just as well be a mountain. 

"Come on, there has to be a way," she says out loud, and rests her forehead on the ice. Once more, it seems to her as if the Wall is trying to talk, foreign whispers she can't understand. Lyanna snorts at her own foolishness. It's probably just the sudden gusts of wind playing tricks with her mind as they sweep like miniature storms along the tall ice surface. 

She lets herself fall on the ground, mindless of the snow, too tired to worry about the cold. Despair catches up to her. To be _so close_ and at the same time so far away. 

From the ground, the Wall seems even bigger. Unsurmountable. She can't even begin to imagine how Bran the Builder managed to raise it. It seems more like a bluff of pure ice put there by the gods. Even Winterfell, which Lyanna had always believed to be the Builder's best creation, paled in comparison. Her naive idea to climb the Wall as she would one of the tower of Winterfell seems childish and stupid now. The stories had not been enough to make her understand the sheer size of it. 

She watches the ravens play at the top, flying around and chasing each other before settling to roost, and wishes fervently she could be able to fly like them. How would the world look from up there? 

Sharper and brighter. Clearer. Everything different. Even the snow, which to Lyanna's eyes was only ever white, is marked by new hues of whiteness she has no name for. She is dreaming she is one of the ravens, but the realization is not enough to wake her up. She likes how the world looks from the top of the Wall. Down below she sees herself, sprawled on the snow, a foreign creature that does not belong. A potential predator to be monitored carefully. 

Lyanna wants to fly and the thought is enough to send the raven soaring into the sky. They plunge from the edge of the Wall and extend their wings. Gravity calls to them as it does to all things, but instead of an enemy it is an ally. It's easy to flap their wings and let the currents of wind carry them. They fly lower until Lyanna can see herself more clearly. She can even make out her own face, utterly still and empty, eyes white and sightless like a statute's. Dead eyes.

She gasps awake, heart beating madly against her chest. For a moment, her own body seems foreign to her, and she can't quite remember how to make it work. Her muscles are stiff and cold, and the back of her head is soaked through with melted snow. She curses. Stupid! Of all the moronic things to do, falling asleep in the snow without even a fire to warm her up. Every child in the North knows better than that. 

The raven flies past her, almost within touching distance, oddly unafraid. Lyanna stands up and shakes herself, brushing off the snow from her clothes. She jumps from foot to foot, trying to warm herself faster. The raven settles in a hollow in the ice a dozen of feet above the ground. 

Lyanna squints against the glare of the light, trying to see better. The hollow seems almost like a narrow, uneven step carved into the side of the Wall. She studies the jagged surface closer, surprised to notice it differs from the rest of the Wall. Large pieces of ice jut out from the icy cliff, rough and uneven, forming small grooves. Big icicles as thick as her arm cling to their edges. Under a closer scrutiny she can almost discern a vague pattern. They are steps! Or they had been at some point in the far away past. Now they are misshaped and neglected, having thawed and frozen again and again over the centuries. Many of them are completely missing, melted away by the passage of time and whatever counts as summer this far North. 

What's left of the stairs does not reach the bottom. The first step is almost twelve feet away, but it still better than anything she could have hoped. Dozen feet she can climb, four hundred is another matter. 

She pulls out two small axes and buckles the rest of her belongings tight against her back. Lyanna rams the first ax deep and high into the ice and tests its hold before doing the same with the second. Painstakingly slow she starts the difficult task of climbing, one step at a time, using the axes' handles to pull herself up. She thinks only of the next step, not the ones that will come after. She only needs to master that next step, the few inches it will gain her. 

Stopping is not an option.

She loses the sense of time, but when she least expects it, that first step is suddenly there. She drags herself up until her feet find purchase on the slippery ice. She tests its stability, afraid to let go of her hold on the ax. It's surprisingly solid, and Lyanna sighs with relief. 

Carefully, she pries the axes away from the ice, looks down and swallows. She loves climbing, always has, but even she is all too aware of how easy it would be to slip on the slick ice and plummet to the ground. 

Slowly, she starts her ascend, mindful of the too narrow steps, pressing her body into the Wall as best she can and securing her stance with the axes. The wind becomes harsher and colder the higher up she gets, threatening to topple her more often than not. In more than one occasion she has to crouch down and hold on firmly until the gusts of wind ease and she can continue. A few times, only the axes allow her to bridge the distance between missing steps, and she has to pull herself up or sideways until she can reach the next piece of crumbling stairs.

The way up is strenuous and treacherous. By the time she reaches the top the sunlight has begun to dim. The ravens fly away with loud, indignant croaks as she pulls herself over the edge with one last effort. She drops on her back, catching her breath, elated with the overwhelming sense of victory rushing through her veins and the thrill of the climb. 

She made it!

Lyanna stands up after a while and takes it all in. The top of the Wall seems broader than the kingsroad, and just like it, it stretches left and right as far as the eye can see. She peers at the other side, curious about the unknown world of wildlings, direwolves, children of the forests and Others. A world of songs and legends. A dangerous world. From this far up, all she can see is a forest, deep and dark, reaching out all the way to the horizon.

The Wall is the border between two worlds: one familiar, one unknown. Once Lyanna crosses over, she will no longer be Lady Stark. Last names mean nothing North of the Wall. She will become one more lawless wildling among thousands of them. A fugitive. A law-breaker. And with her, her unborn child.

Lyanna looks back to the South, towards Winterfell, faraway and invisible. A dream that never was. In the forest behind the Wall a wolf howls, and to her it seems like a greeting. A wild world, for a wild girl.

Hers is the blood of the direwolf. Some place out there a new pack awaits her and Lyanna can't wait to joint it. If she cannot be a Stark, being just Lyanna will have to suffice. She cannot keep her last name, but by the gods, she will keep her dreams.

 

El Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank all readers who have accompany me on this journey - the lurkers, but specially those who left kudos and bookmarked and those who took the time to comment. Your feedback made me smile and inspired me and made me happy in a time when I needed it. So thank you!
> 
> I'm not ruling out more one-shots in this universe, but I don't want to commit to anything, because my track record writing sequels is terrible. 
> 
> For those of you curious as to what the future holds for Lyanna, know that before this story had an official title, in my head I used to call it: Queen-Beyond-the-Wall!Lyanna. That probably tells you quite a lot about where the journey is taking her. 
> 
> The actual title "No Blood, No Alibi" comes from the song "What I've Done" by Linkin Park, which is the reason the story ever made the transition from a story-I-tell-myself-when-I'm-bored to a story-I-actually-sit-down-and-write. I'd been thinking on and off about this universe for a while, when I heard the song on the radio. It was just perfect for this Lyanna. And all of a sudden I had a title, and Queen-Beyond-the-Wall!Lyanna was ordering me to write her the story to match it: her origin story. 
> 
> As for Rhaegar? Well, for him Lyanna is always going to be "the one that got away."


End file.
